by Carol
“Jimmy,” I said, lying back and letting the bed ease my back lazily, “I’m going to win that race. That hundred-thousand first looks mighty good.”
“Um-hm-m-m.” Jimmy was opening a can of cigarettes, and he finished before answering. “Better stick to the second, kid. This race is fixed.”
“I’ll change that, then. Who told you it was fixed?” He grinned sourly. “Nobody. I fixed it myself.” He watched my mouth run around and end up in an open circle. “Maybe Brad forgot to tell you, and it’s not common news, but “I’m a professional bettor.”
It was news to me. “But I thought dad—Did he know?”
“Sure, he knew. Oh, he wasn’t connected with it, if that’s what you’re wondering. When he switched from jockeying to dodging, I left the ponies to handicap the soup cans. Learned the gambling end from my father, the best handicapper in the business. It’s a habit in the family.”
There was pride in his voice. Maybe I was screwy; after all, some people have a pretty low opinion of rocket dodgers. I decided to let Jimmy spill his side without foolish questions.
“Um-hm-m-m. Natural-born handicapper, I am. I won twice every time I lost. Never cheated a man, welshed on a bet, or bribed a dodger to throw a race. Anything wrong with that?”
I had to admit there wasn’t. After all, dad used to do some betting himself, as I should know. “How about the race being crooked?”
Jimmy snorted. “Not crooked—fixed. Don’t go twisting my words, Len.” He stretched out on the bed and took the cigarette out of his mouth. “Always wanted to be famous, son. You know, big philanthropist, endow libraries and schools. Got to be a habit, planning on that; and you can’t make that kind of money just handicapping. Your dad ever tell you about that fuel he was working on?”
I began to see light. “We knew he’d been doing something of that sort, though the formula couldn’t be found. Matter of fact, he was using it in the Runabout when it went out.”
“That’s it” Jimmy nodded. “A little bit of the compound in the fuel boosts the speed way up. There were a couple of kinks in the original formula, but I got them straightened out. I picked the winner—the fellow who needs to win most, if that’s any comfort to you—and sell him on the new fuel. Only the thing won’t work in quartz tubes—bums ’em out.”
“I won’t need it. I’ll win this race fair and square.” All the same, that did mess things up: I knew dad had thought a lot of that fuel.
“No rules against better fuels. A man can pick the fuel he wants, the same as he can travel any course he wants to, no matter how long, if he goes past the markers.” He grunted. “Brad didn’t want you racing, so he sent me the formula. Had a hunch about going out, I guess; dodgers get a habit of hunches.”
“And we Masters have a habit of winning. Better change your bets, Jimmy.”
“It’s all fixed, too late to change, and the odds are big. After this race, I’m going back and get the habit of being a big philanthropist. Look, kid, you’re not sore about my using Brad’s formula?”
“If he gave it to you, that was his business.” I pulled the sheet up and reached for the light switch. “Only don’t blame me when you lose your bet.”
But the morning of the start, I had to confess I wasn’t feeling so cocky, in spite of living high on Jimmy for a week. I’d seen the favorite—Bouncing Betty—and Jimmy’s fix, the Tar Baby, and the both looked mighty good to me.
“What’s the Tar Baby pulling?” I asked Jimmy. Or do you know?”
“Olsen says he’s driving her at better than two G’s all the way. The Bouncing Betty’s pulling straight two which is tough enough, but Olsen thinks he can stand the strain at two and a quarter.”
I looked them over again. An extra quarter gravity of acceleration, even if it is only an extra four feet per second per second, uses a lot of additional fuel, even for a sixteen-ton soup can. “How about that mixture, Jimmy? Does it pep up the efficiency, or just the speed—combustion rate and exhaust velocity?”
“She’ll throw out a fifty-percent mixture I gave Olsen; optimum is good for eighty.” Something began to click in my head then, but his next words sidetracked it “You’d better draw out, kid. An eight-day race is bad, even if you can hold two G’s. How’s your supplies?”
I was worried a little myself, but I wouldn’t admit it. “They’d last. I’ve stocked enough soup to carry me to Jupiter and back at two G’s, if I had to, and the marker station is forty million miles this side of the big fellow, on a direct line from here. I’ve got plenty of oxygen, water, and concentrates.”
They’d given out the course that morning. We were to head out from Kor, point straight at Jupiter with a climb out of the plane of the ecliptic, dive down and hit a beacon rocket they were holding on a direct line with the big planet, forty million miles this side of him; that made about an even three-hundred-trillion-mile course from Mars, out and back, figured for eight days at a constant acceleration and deceleration of two gravities. It had been advertised as the longest and toughest race in rocket history, and they were certainly living up to the publicity.
“That’s a tough haul on a youngster, Len,” Jimmy grumbled. “And with quartz lining, it’s worse.”
“I’ve had plenty of practice at high acceleration, and the tubes are practically safe for six days’ firing. I think they’ll last the other two.”
“Then you’re matching the Bouncing Betty*s speed?” I nodded glumly. “I’ll have to. The Tar Baby’ll probably run into trouble at the speed she’s meaning to make, but the Betty‘s built to stand two.”
The starter was singing out his orders, and the field was being cleared. Jimmy grabbed my hand. “Good luck, Len. Don’t ride her harder’n she’ll carry. You Masters make too much of a habit of being crazy.” Then they forced him off the field, and I was climb-v mg into the cockpit, tightening the anchor straps of the shock hammock about the straightjacket I wore.
And I expected to need them. Two gravities mean double weight, during eight days, fighting your lungs and heart. If you take it lengthwise, it can’t be done, but by lying stretched out on the hammock at right angles to the flight line, it’s just possible.
The Betty roared up first, foaming out without a falter. Olsen took the Tar Baby up a little uncertainly, but straightened sharply and headed up. Finally, I got the signal and gave her the gun, leaving Mars dangling in space while I tried to keep my stomach off my backbone. The first ten minutes are always the toughest.
When that passed, I began feeding the tape into the baby autopilot that would take over when I had to sleep, which was about three quarters of the time, under the gravity drag. There wasn’t anything exciting to the takeoff, and 1 was out in space before I knew it, with the automatic guiding her. I might have to make a correction or two, but she’d hold at the two-G mark on course for days at a stretch.
I’d been fool enough to dream about excitement, but I knew already I wasn’t going to get it. By the time I was half an hour out, I was bored stiff, or felt that way. The automat ran the ship, space looked all alike, and the only sensation was weight pressing against me. I looked around for the Betty, and spotted her blast some fifty miles away, holding evenly abreast of me. The others were strung out behind in a little cluster, except for Olsen. His blast was way up ahead, forging along at a good quarter gravity more than 1 could use. At the end of an hour, he was a full ten thousand miles away from me; there was no mistaking the harsh white glare of his jets. Olsen had decided to duck over the ecliptic, as I was doing, but the Bouncing Betty had headed below it, so it was drawing out of sight. That left me out of touch with what 1 hoped was my leading competitor.
Of course, the radio signals came through on the ultra-wave every so often, but the pep-talk description of the thrilling contest for endurance racing didn’t mean much when I put it up against the facts. A racing ship in space on a long haul is the loneliest, most Godforsaken spot under the stars. For excitement, I’ll take marbles.
Having noth
ing better to do, I turned over and went to sleep on my stomach. You can kill a lot of time sleeping, and I meant to do it.
The howler was banging in my ear when I woke up. I reached over and cut on, noting that the chronometer said sixteen hours out of Kor.
“Special bulletin to all pilots,” said the ultra-wave set. “The Bouncing Betty, piloted by James MacIntyre, is now out of the race. MacIntyre reports that, in cutting too close to the ecliptic, he was struck by a small meteor, and has suffered the loss of three main tubes. While out of the running, he feels confident of reaching Kor safely on his own power.
’This leaves Olsen of the Tar Baby and Masters of the Umatila in the lead by a long margin. Come in, Olsen.”
Olsen’s voice held a note of unholy glee that the obvious fatigue he was feeling couldn’t hide. “Still holding two and a quarter, heart good, breathing only slightly labored; no head pains. Position at approximately twenty-two and a half million miles from Kor; speed, two million eight hundred thousand per hour. Confident of winning.”
“Report acknowledged, Olsen. Come in, Masters.”
I tried to sound careless, but I guess I failed. “Acceleration at two, holding course beautifully on autopilot, rising over ecliptic. Body and ship standing up O.K. Pyrometer indications of tube lining very satisfactory. Position, twenty million miles out; speed, two and a half million. No signs of meteors up here. Can you give next highest acceleration below me?”
Already it took time for the messages to reach Kor and return, and I tried to locate Olsen with his two-and-a-half-million-mile lead. Even if he cut down to two now, the race seemed a certainty for him—unless something happened. Finally the report came back.
“Burkes, on the Salvador, reports one and three quarters, refuses to try higher. No others above that except yourself and Olsen. Are you going to match the Tar Baby?"
Match the Tar Baby, indeed, and run short of fuel or blow-up! “No chance. Still expect to win, though.”
Well, at least it would sound nice back home, and it might worry Olsen a little. He was too conceited about his speed. But I couldn’t see myself making good. Even if I cut closer to the ecliptic, it wouldn’t save enough time to count, and the risk wasn’t worth while. 1 dug into my store of concentrates and satisfied a raving hunger—double weight takes double energy, just as it does sleep. The only thing I could think of was to wish I could maintain acceleration all the way, instead of just half.
That’s the trouble with racing. You accelerate with all you’ve got half the way, then turn around and decelerate just as hard until you reach your goal; then you repeat the whole thing in getting back. The result is that as soon as you reach top speed, you have to check it, and you average only a part of what you can do. If there were just something a man could get a grip on in space to slew around, instead of stopping dead, every record made would go to pieces the next day.
I checked over the automat, found it ticking cheerfully, and fiddled around with the calculator. But the results were the same as they’d been back in Kor. It still said I’d have to decelerate after about forty-four hours. Then I messed around with imaginary courses to kill time, listened to the thrilling reports of the race—it must have been nice to listen to—and gave up. Setting the alarm, I went back to sleep, with the announcer’s voice concluding some. laudatory remark about the “fearless young man out there giving his ship everything he’s got in a frantic effort to win.”
But I was awake when the next bulletin came in from Kor at the end of the forty-hour mark. “Special bulletin! We’ve just received word from Dynatomic Fuels that there’s a prize of fifty thousand additional to any and every man who makes the course in less than eight full days! Olsen and Masters are now way ahead in the field, and about to do their reversing. Come on, Masters, we’re pulling for you; make it a dose race! All right, Olsen, come in.”
“Tell Dynatomic the prize is due me already, and give ’em my thanks. Holding up fine here, fuel running better than I expected. Hundred and forty million out; speed, seven million. Reversing in two hours.”
“O. K., Olsen. Come in. Masters—and don’t forget that special; you’re still in line for it.”
By a tight margin, I might make it, since it applied to as many as came in within the time period. “I’ll be in the special field, Kor. Everything like clockwork here, standing it fine. Pyrometer still says tubes O. K. Position, one twenty-five millions; speed, six and a quarter. Reversing in four hours.”
“O. K., Masters; hope you make it. Watch out for Jupiter, both of you; even at forty million miles, he’ll play tricks with your steering when you hit the beacon. Signing off at Kor.”
Jupiter! Right then a thought I’d been trying to nurse into consciousness came up and knocked on my dome. I dug my fingers into the calculator; the more the tape said, the better things looked.
Finally I hit the halfway. Olsen had reversed a couple of hours before with no bad effects from the change. But I was busy dialing Mars. They came in, after a good long wait. “Acknowledging Masters. Trouble?”
“Clear sailing, here and ahead, Kor.” It’s nice to feel confident after staring second prize in the face all the trip. “Is there any rule about the course, provided a man passes the beacon inside of a hundred thousand miles? Otherwise, do I have free course?”
“Absolutely free course, Masters. Anything you do after the beacon is O. K., if you get back. Advise you don’t cut into asteroids, however.”
“No danger of that. Thanks, Kor.”
I’d already passed the reversing point, but that wasn’t worrying me. I snapped off the power, leaving only the automat cut into the steering tubes, and gazed straight ahead. Sure enough, there was Jupiter, with his markings and all; the fellow that was going to let me maintain full speed over halfway, and make the long course the faster one. I was remembering Jimmy’s remark that put the idea into my head: “A man can pick the fuel he wants, the same as he can travel any course he wants, no matter how long.”
With power cut off, I was still ticking off about seven million miles an hour, but I couldn’t feel it. Instead, I felt plenty sick, without any feeling of weight at all. But I couldn’t bother about that. Kor was calling again, but I shut them up with a few words. If I was crazy, that was my business, and the ship was doing O. K.
I set the buzzer to wake me when I figured I’d be near Olsen. Looking out, when the thing went off, I could sec his jets shooting out away off side, and a little ahead. But he was cutting his speed sharply, while I was riding free, and I began sliding past him.
I was all set to gloat when his voice barked in over the ultra-set: “Masters! Calling Masters!”
“O. K., Olsen.”
“Man, decelerate! You’ll crack up on Jupiter at that rate. If something’s wrong, say so. We’re way out ahead, and there’s plenty of time. Give me the word and I’ll try to cut in on you. The Tar Baby’s strong enough to hold back your soup can. How about it, Masters?” That was the guy I’d been hating for a glory hound, figuring him as out for himself only. “No need, Olsen, but a load of thanks. I’m trying out a hunch to steal first place away from you.”
The relief in his voice was as unquestionable as his bewilderment. “It’s O. K. if you can do it, mister. I’ll still make the special. Why not let me in on the hunch? I won’t crib your idea.”
“O. K., but I don’t know how it’ll work, for sure. I’m going around Jupiter at full speed instead of cutting to the beacon.”
“You’re crazy, Masters.” The idea didn’t appeal to him at all. “Hope your tubes hold up under the extra eighty million miles. So long!”
Sixty-seven hours out of Kor I passed the beacon at the required hundred thousand miles—which isn’t as wide a margin at full speed as it sounds—and headed out. Olsen must have called ahead to tell them what 1 was doing, because they acknowledged my call, verified my distance, and signed off without questions.
I caught an hour’s sleep again, and then Jupiter was growing uncomfortabl
y close. I’d already been over my calculations twenty times, but so darned much depended on them that I wasn’t taking chances. I ran them through again. The big fellow was coming up alongside like a mountain rolling toward an ant, and I was already closer than anyone I’d ever heard of.
But it worked out all right, at first I gazed around the side, was caught in his gravity, and began to swing in an orbit. That’s what I’d been looking for, something to catch hold of out in space to swing me around with* out loss of momentum, and that’s what I’d found; Jupiter’s gravity pulled me around like a lead weight on a swung rope.
Which was fine—if I had enough speed to make him let go again, as close as I was to his surface. Fortunately, he hasn’t any atmosphere to speak of in proportion to his diameter, or I’d have been warmed up entirely too much for pleasant living. In no time I was coming around and facing back in the general direction of Mars; and then two things happened at once.
Jupiter wasn’t letting me go on schedule; he seemed to think he needed a little more time for observation of this queer satellite he’d just caught. And Io swung up right where it shouldn’t have been. I’d forgotten the moons!
That’s when I began counting heartbeats. Either Jupiter pulled me too far, or he threw me square into Io, and I didn’t like either prospect. The steering tubes were worthless in the short space I had at that speed. I waited, and Jupiter began to let go—with Io coming up!
Whishh! I could hear the outer edges of the moon’s atmosphere whistle briefly past the sides of my soup can, and then silence. When I opened my eyes, Io lay behind, with Jupiter, and I was heading straight for the beacon. Dear old Io! Light as its gravity was, it had still been enough to correct the slight error in my calculations and set me back on my course, even if I did come too close for my peace of mind.