wheeling galaxy. It grew huge, its arms of glowing stars spread open to embrace the ship. Chiram relaxed the field. The striations of space gripped at their atoms, the ship slowed like a bullet shot into water.
They coasted into the outer lanes of stars, across the far-flung tendrils, past the globular clusters, across the central knot.
Ahead, like magic, the sky suddenly showed full of familiar patterns.
“Dead ahead!” cried Chiram. “See—that’s the constellation Cygnus; that’s where we started for…And there—dead ahead—that yellow star…”
Hard Luck Diggings
In solving a problem, I form and consider every conceivable premise. If each of these results in an impossible set of implications, except one, whose consequence is merely improbable: then that lone hypothesis, no matter how unprecedented, is necessarily the correct solution of the problem.
—
Magnus Ridolph
Superintendent James Rogge’s office occupied the top of a low knoll at Diggings A, and his office, through a semi-circular window, overlooked both diggings, A and B, all the way down to the beach and the strange-colored ocean beyond.
Rogge sat within, chair turned to the window, drumming his fingers in quick irregular tempo. Suddenly he jumped to his feet and strode across the room. He was tall and thin, and his black eyes sparkled in a face parched and bony, while his chin dished out below his mouth like a shovel-blade.
He punched a button at the telescreen, waited, leaning slightly forward, his finger still holding down the button. There was no response. The screen hummed quietly, but remained ash-gray, dead.
Rogge clenched his fists. “What a demoralized outfit! Won’t even answer the screen.”
As he turned his back, the screen came alive. Rogge swung around, clasped his hands behind his back. “Well?”
“Sorry, Mr. Rogge, but they’ve just found another,” panted the cadet engineer.
Rogge stiffened. “Where, this time?”
“In the shower room. He’d just been cleaning up.”
Rogge flung his arms out from his sides. “How many times have I told them not to shower alone? By Deneb, I can’t be everywhere! Haven’t they brains enough—” A knock at the door interrupted him. A time-keeper pushed his head in.
“The mail ship’s in sight, Mr. Rogge.”
Rogge took a step toward the door, looked back over his shoulder.
“You attend to that, Kelly. I’m holding you responsible!”
The cadet blinked. “I can’t help it if—” he began querulously, but he was speaking to the retreating back of his superior, and then the empty office. He muttered, dialed off.
Rogge strode out on the beach. He was early, for the ship was still a black spot in the purple-blue sky. When it finally settled, fuming and hissing, on the glinting gray sand, Rogge hardly waited for the steam to billow away before stepping forward to the port.
There was a few minutes’ delay while the crew released themselves from their shock-belts. Rogge shuffled his feet, fidgeting like a nervous race-horse. Metallic sounds came from within. The dogs twisted, the port opened with a sigh, and Rogge moved irritably back from the smell of hot oil, men, carbolic acid, paint.
A round, red face looked out the port.
“Hello, doc,” called Rogge. “All cleared for landing?”
“Germ-free,” said the red face. “Safe as Sunday school.”
“Well, open ’er up!”
The flushed medico eyed Rogge with a detached bird-like curiosity. “You in a hurry?”
Rogge tilted his head, stared at the doctor, eye to eye. The red face disappeared, the port opened wider, a short plump man in blue shorts swung out on the stage, descended the ladder. He flipped a hand to Rogge.
“Hello, Julic,” said Rogge, peering up past him to the open port. “Any passengers?”
“Thirteen replacements for you. Cat-skinners, a couple plumbers—space-sick all the way.”
Rogge snorted, jerked his head. “Thirteen? Do you know I’ve lost thirty-three men this
They coasted into the outer lanes of stars, across the far-flung tendrils, past the globular clusters, across the central knot.
Ahead, like magic, the sky suddenly showed full of familiar patterns.
“Dead ahead!” cried Chiram. “See—that’s the constellation Cygnus; that’s where we started for…And there—dead ahead—that yellow star…”
Hard Luck Diggings
In solving a problem, I form and consider every conceivable premise. If each of these results in an impossible set of implications, except one, whose consequence is merely improbable: then that lone hypothesis, no matter how unprecedented, is necessarily the correct solution of the problem.
—
Magnus Ridolph
Superintendent James Rogge’s office occupied the top of a low knoll at Diggings A, and his office, through a semi-circular window, overlooked both diggings, A and B, all the way down to the beach and the strange-colored ocean beyond.
Rogge sat within, chair turned to the window, drumming his fingers in quick irregular tempo. Suddenly he jumped to his feet and strode across the room. He was tall and thin, and his black eyes sparkled in a face parched and bony, while his chin dished out below his mouth like a shovel-blade.
He punched a button at the telescreen, waited, leaning slightly forward, his finger still holding down the button. There was no response. The screen hummed quietly, but remained ash-gray, dead.
Rogge clenched his fists. “What a demoralized outfit! Won’t even answer the screen.”
As he turned his back, the screen came alive. Rogge swung around, clasped his hands behind his back. “Well?”
“Sorry, Mr. Rogge, but they’ve just found another,” panted the cadet engineer.
Rogge stiffened. “Where, this time?”
“In the shower room. He’d just been cleaning up.”
Rogge flung his arms out from his sides. “How many times have I told them not to shower alone? By Deneb, I can’t be everywhere! Haven’t they brains enough—” A knock at the door interrupted him. A time-keeper pushed his head in.
“The mail ship’s in sight, Mr. Rogge.”
Rogge took a step toward the door, looked back over his shoulder.
“You attend to that, Kelly. I’m holding you responsible!”
The cadet blinked. “I can’t help it if—” he began querulously, but he was speaking to the retreating back of his superior, and then the empty office. He muttered, dialed off.
Rogge strode out on the beach. He was early, for the ship was still a black spot in the purple-blue sky. When it finally settled, fuming and hissing, on the glinting gray sand, Rogge hardly waited for the steam to billow away before stepping forward to the port.
There was a few minutes’ delay while the crew released themselves from their shock-belts. Rogge shuffled his feet, fidgeting like a nervous race-horse. Metallic sounds came from within. The dogs twisted, the port opened with a sigh, and Rogge moved irritably back from the smell of hot oil, men, carbolic acid, paint.
A round, red face looked out the port.
“Hello, doc,” called Rogge. “All cleared for landing?”
“Germ-free,” said the red face. “Safe as Sunday school.”
“Well, open ’er up!”
The flushed medico eyed Rogge with a detached bird-like curiosity. “You in a hurry?”
Rogge tilted his head, stared at the doctor, eye to eye. The red face disappeared, the port opened wider, a short plump man in blue shorts swung out on the stage, descended the ladder. He flipped a hand to Rogge.
“Hello, Julic,” said Rogge, peering up past him to the open port. “Any passengers?”
“Thirteen replacements for you. Cat-skinners, a couple plumbers—space-sick all the way.”
Rogge snorted, jerked his head. “Thirteen? Do you know I’ve lost thirty-three men this
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