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But even at ten gravities' drive it takes time to travel 4,000 miles. Atthree, and coasting a great deal of the way, it takes much longer. ThePlatform circled Earth in four hours and a little more. Anythingintending interception and rising straight up needed to start skywardlong before the Platform was overhead. A three-g rocket would startwhile the Platform was still below the western horizon from itslaunching-spot. Especially if it planned to coast part of itsjourney--and a three-gravity rocket would have to coast most of the way.
So there was time. Coasting, the rising manned rocket would be losingspeed. If it planned to go no higher than the Platform's orbit, itsupward velocity would be zero there. If it were intercepted 500 milesdown, it would be rising at an almost leisurely rate, and Joe and theChief could check their Earthward plunge and match its rising rate.
This they did. But what they couldn't do was match its orbital velocity,which was zero. They had the Platform's eastward speed to startwith--over 200 miles a minute. No matter how desperately they firedbraking-rockets, they couldn't stop and maneuver around the risingcontrol-ship. Inevitably they would simply flash past it in the fractionof an instant. To fire their tiny guided missiles on ahead would bealmost to assure that they would miss. Also, the enemy ship was manned.It could fight back.
But Joe had been on the receiving end of one attack in space. It wasn'tmuch experience, but it was more than anybody but he and his own crewpossessed.
"Chief," said Joe softly into his helmet-mike, as if by speaking softlyhe could keep from being overheard, "get close enough to me to see whatI do, and do it too. I can't tell you more. Whoever's running thisrocket might know English."
There was a flaring of vapor in space. The Chief was using hissteering-rockets to draw near.
Joe spun his little space wagon about, so that it pointed back in thedirection from which he had come. He had four guided missiles,demolition type. Very deliberately, he fired the four of themastern--away from the rising rocket. They were relatively low-speedmissiles, intended to blow up a robot ship that couldn't be hooked onto,because it was traveling too much faster or slower than the Platform itwas intended to reach. The missiles went away. Then Joe faced aboutagain in the direction of his prospective target. The Chief fumed--Joeheard him--but he duplicated Joe's maneuver. He faced his own eccentricvessel in the direction of its line of flight.
Then his fuming suddenly ceased. Joe's headphones brought his explosivegrunt when he suddenly saw the idea.
"_Joe! I wish you could talk Indian! I could kiss you for this trick!_"
Brown's voice said anxiously: "_I'm going to let that manned rocket havea couple more shots._"
"Let us get by first," said Joe. "Then maybe you can use them on thebombs coming up."
He could see the trails of war-rockets on the way out from Earth. Theywere infinitesimal threads of vapor. They were the thinnest possiblefilaments of gossamer white. But they enlarged as they rose. They wereclimbing at better than two miles per second, now, and still increasingtheir speed.
But the arena in which this conflict took place was so vast thateverything seemed to take place in slow motion. There was time to reasonout not only the method of attack from Earth, but the excuse for it. Ifthe Platform vanished from space, no matter from what cause, its enemieswould announce vociferously that it had been destroyed by its ownatomic bombs, exploding spontaneously. Even in the face of proof ofmurder, enemy nations would stridently insist that bombs intended forthe enslavement of humanity--in the Platform--had providentiallydetonated and removed that instrument of war-mongering scoundrellyimperialists from the skies. There might be somebody, somewhere, whowould believe it.
Joe and the Chief were steadied now nearly on a line to intercept therising manned rocket. They had already fired their missiles, whichtrailed them. They went into battle, not prepared to shoot, but withtheir ammunition expended. For which there was excellent reason.
Something came foaming toward them from the nearby man-carrying rocket.It seemed like a side-spout from the column of vapor rising from Earth.Actually it was a guided missile.
"Now we dodge," said Joe cheerfully. "Remember the trick of thismaneuvering business!"
It was simple. Speeding toward the rising assassin, and with hismissiles rushing toward them, the relative speeds of the wagons and themissiles were added together. If the space wagons dodged, the missileoperator had less time to swing his guided rockets to match the changeof target course. And besides, the attacker hadn't made a single turn inspace. Not yet. He might know that a rocket doesn't go where it'spointed, as a matter of theory. He might even know intellectually thatthe final speed and course of a rocket is the sum of all its previousspeeds and courses. But he hadn't used the knowledge Joe and the Chiefhad.
Something rushed at them. They went into evasive action. And they didn'tmerely turn the noses of their space wagons. They flung them aboutend-for-end, and blasted. They used wholly different accelerations atodd angles. Joe shot away from Earth on steering rocket thrust, andtouched off a four-three while he faced toward Earth's north pole, andhalfway along that four-second rush he flipped his craft in a somersaultand the result was nearly a right-angled turn. When the four-threeburned out he set off a twelve-two, and halfway through its burningfired a three-two with it, so that at the beginning he had two gravitiesacceleration, then four gravities for three seconds, and then two again.
With long practice, a man might learn marksmanship in space. But all aman's judgment of speeds is learned on Earth, where things always,always, always move steadily. Nobody making his first space-flight couldpossibly hit such targets as Joe and the Chief made of themselves. Theman in the enemy rocket was making his first flight. Also, Joe and theChief had an initial velocity of 200 miles a minute toward him. Themarksman in the rising rocket hadn't a chance. He fired four moremissiles and tried desperately to home them in. But----
They flashed past his rising course. And then they were quite safe fromhis fire, because it would take a very long time indeed for anything heshot after them to catch up. But their missiles had still to passhim--and Joe and the Chief could steer them without any concern abouttheir own safety or anything else but a hit.
They made a hit.
Two of the eight little missiles flashed luridly, almost together, wherethe radar-pips showed the rocket to be. Then there were two parts to therocket, separating. One was small and one was fairly large. Anotherdemolition-missile hit the larger section. Still another exploded asthat was going to pieces. The smaller fragment ceased to be important.The explosions weren't atomic bombs, of course. They were onlydemolition-charges. But they demolished the manned rocket admirably.
Brown's voice came in the headphones, still tense. "_You got it! Howabout the others?_"
Joe felt a remarkable exhilaration. Later he might think about the poordevil--there could have been only one--who had been destroyed some 3,700miles above the surface of the Earth. He might think unhappily of thatman as a victim of hatred rather than as a hater. He might becomeextremely uncomfortable about this, but at the moment he felt merelythat he and the Chief had won a startling victory.
"I think," he said, "that you can treat them with silent contempt. Theywon't have proximity fuses. Those friends of ours who want so badly tokill us have found that proximity fuses don't work. Unless one is on acollision course I don't think you need to do anything about them."
The Chief was muttering to himself in Mohawk, twenty miles away. Joesaid:
"Chief, how about getting back to the Platform?"
The Chief growled. "_My great-grandfather would disown me! Winning afight and no scalp to show! Not even counting coup! He'd disown me!_"
But Joe saw his rockets flare, away off against the stars.
The war rockets were very near, now. They still emitted monstrousjettings of thick white vapor. They climbed up with incredible speed.One went by Joe at a distance of little more than a mile, and its fumeseddied out to half that before they thinned to no
thingness. They went onand on and on....
They burned out somewhere. It would be a long time before they fell backto Earth. Hours, probably. Then they would be meteors. They'd vaporizebefore they touched solidity. They wouldn't even explode.
But Joe and the Chief rode back to the Platform. It was surprising howhard it was to match speed with it again, to make a good entrance intothe giant lock. They barely made it before the Platform made its plungeinto that horrible blackness which was the Earth's shadow. And Joe wasvery glad they did make it before then. He wouldn't have liked to bemerely astride a skinny framework in that ghastly darkness, with themonstrous blackness of the Abyss seeming to be trying to devour him.
Haney met them in the airlock. He grinned.
"Nice job, Joe! Nice job, Chief!" he said warmly. "Uh--the LieutenantCommander wants you to report to him, Joe. Right away."
Joe cocked an eyebrow at him.
"What for?"
Haney spread out his hands. The Chief grunted. "That guy bothers me.I'll bet, Joe, he's going to explain you shouldn't've gone out when hedidn't want you to. Me, I'm keeping away from him!"
The Chief shed his space suit and swaggered away, as well as anyonecould swagger while walking on what happened to be the ceiling, fromJoe's point of view. Joe put his space gear in its proper place. He wentto the small cubbyhole that Brown had appropriated for the office of thePlatform Commander. Joe went in, naturally without saluting.
Brown sat in a fastened-down chair with thigh grips holding him inplace. He was writing. On Joe's entry, he carefully put the pen down ona magnetized plate that would hold it until he wanted it again.Otherwise it could have floated anywhere about the room.
"Mr. Kenmore," said Brown awkwardly, "you did a very nice piece of work.It's too bad you aren't in the Navy."
Joe said: "It did work out pretty fortunately. It's lucky the Chief andI were out practicing, but now we can take off when a rocket's reported,any time."
Brown cleared his throat. "I can thank you personally," he saidunhappily, "and I do. But--really this situation is intolerable! How canI report this affair? I can't suggest commendation, or a promotion,or--anything! I don't even know how to refer to you! I am going to askyou, Mr. Kenmore, to put through a request that your status beclarified. I would imagine that your status would mean a rank--hm--aboutequivalent to a lieutenant junior grade in the Navy."
Joe grinned.
"I have--ah--prepared a draft you might find helpful," said Brownearnestly. "It's necessary for something to be done. It's urgent! It'simportant!"
"Sorry," said Joe. "The important thing to me is getting ready to loadup the Platform with supplies from Earth. Excuse me."
He went out of the office. He made his way to the quarters assignedhimself and his crew. Mike greeted him with reproachful eyes. Joe wavedhis hand.
"Don't say it, Mike! The answer is yes. See that the tanks are refilled,and new rockets put in place. Then you and Haney go out and practice.But no farther than ten miles from the Platform. Understand?"
"No!" said Mike rebelliously. "It's a dirty trick!"
"Which," Joe assured him, "I commit only because there's a robot shipfrom Bootstrap coming up any time now. And we'll need to pick it up andtow it here."
He went to the control-room to see if he could get a vision connectionto Earth.
He got the beam, and he got Sally on the screen. A report of the attackon the Platform had evidently already gone down to Earth. Sally'sexpression was somehow drawn and haunted. But she tried to talk lightly.
"Derring-do and stuff, Joe?" she asked. "How does it feel to be avictorious warrior?"
"It feels rotten," he told her. "There must have been somebody in therocket we blew up. He felt like a patriot, I guess, trying to murder us;But I feel like a butcher."
"Maybe you didn't do it," she said. "Maybe the Chief's bombs----"
"Maybe," said Joe. He hesitated. "Hold up your hand."
She held it up. His ring was still on it. She nodded. "Still there. Whenwill you be back?"
He shook his head. He didn't know. It was curious that one wantedso badly to talk to a girl after doing something that wasblood-stirring--and left one rather sickish afterward. This business ofspace travel and even space battle was what he'd dreamed of, and hestill wanted it. But it was very comforting to talk to Sally, who hadn'thad to go through any of it.
"Write me a letter, will you?" he asked. "We can't tie up this beam verylong."
"I'll write you all the news that's allowed to go out," she assured him."Be seeing you, Joe."
Her image faded from the screen. And, thinking it over, he couldn't seethat either of them had said anything of any importance at all. But hewas very glad they'd talked together.
The first robot ship came up some eight hours later--two revolutionsafter the television call. Mike was ready hours in advance, fidgeting.The robot ship started up while the Platform was over the middle of thePacific. It didn't try to make a spiral approach as all other ships haddone. It came straight up, and it started from the ground. No pushpots.Its take-off rockets were monsters. They pushed upward at ten gravitiesuntil it was out of atmosphere, and then they stepped up to fifteen.Much later, the robot turned on its side and fired orbital speed rocketsto match velocity with the Platform.
There were two reasons for the vertical rise, and the high acceleration.If a robot ship went straight up, it wouldn't pass over enemy territoryuntil it was high enough to be protected by the Platform. And--it costsfuel to carry fuel to be burned. So if the rocketship could get up speedfor coasting to orbit in the first couple of hundred miles, it needn'thaul its fuel so far. It was economical to burn one's fuel fast and getan acceleration that would kill a human crew. Hence robots.
The landing of the first robot ship at the Platform was almost asmatter-of-fact as if it had been done a thousand times before. From thePlatform its dramatic take-off couldn't be seen, of course. It firstappeared aloft as a pip on a radar screen. Then Mike prepared to go outand hook on to it and tow it in. He was in his space suit and in thelanding lock, though his helmet faceplate was still open. A loudspeakerboomed suddenly in Brown's voice: "_Evacuate airlock and prepare to takeoff!_"
Joe roared: "Hold that!"
Brown's voice, very official, came: "_Withhold execution of that order.You should not be in the airlock, Mr. Kenmore. You will please make wayfor operational procedure._"
"We're checking the space wagon," snapped Joe. "That's operationalprocedure!"
The loudspeaker said severely: "_The checking should have been doneearlier!_"
There was silence. Mike and Joe, together, painstakingly checked overthe very many items that had to be made sure. Every rocket had to haveits firing circuit inspected. The tanks' contents and pressure verified.The air connection to Mike's space suit. The air pressure. The devicethat made sure that air going to Mike's space suit was neither as hotas metal in burning sunlight, nor cold as the chill of a shadow inspace.
Everything checked. Mike straddled his red-painted mount. Joe left thelock and said curtly:
"Okay to pump the airlock. Okay to open airlock doors when ready. Goahead."
Mike went out, and Joe watched from a port in the Platform's hull. Thedrone from Earth was five miles behind the Platform in its orbit, andtwenty miles below, and all of ten miles off-course. Joe saw Mike scootthe red space wagon to it, stop short with a sort of cockyself-assurance, hook on to the tow-ring in the floating space-barge'snose, and blast off back toward the Platform with it in tow.
Mike had to turn about and blast again to check his motion when hearrived. And then he and Haney--Haney in the other space wagon--nudgedat it and tugged at it and got it in the great spacelock. They went inafter it and the lock doors closed.
Neither Mike nor Haney were out of their space suits when Kent broughtJoe a note. A note was an absurdity in the Platform. But this was aformal communication from Brown.
"_From: Lt. Comdr. Brown
To: Mr. Kenmore
1. There is a regrettable lack of coordination and courtesy in the launching of rocket-recovery vehicles (space wagons) in the normal operation of the Platform.
2. The maintenance of discipline and efficiency requires that the commanding officer maintain overall control of all operations at all times.
3. Hereafter when a space vehicle of any type is to be launched, the commanding officer will be notified in writing not less than one hour before such launching.
4. The time of such proposed launching will be given in such notification in hours and minutes and seconds, Greenwich Mean Time.
5. All commands for launching will be given by the commanding officer or an officer designated by him._"
Joe received the memo as he was in the act of writing a painstakingreport on the maneuver Mike had carried out. Mike was radiant as hediscussed possible improvements with later and better equipment. Afterall, this had been a lucky landing. For a robot to end up no more than30 miles from its target, after a journey of 4,000 miles, and with adifference in velocity that was almost immeasurable--such good fortunecouldn't be expected as a regular thing. The space wagons were tiny. Ifthey had to travel long distances to recover erratic ships coming upfrom Earth----
Joe forgot all about Lieutenant Commander Brown and his memo when themail was distributed. Joe had three letters from Sally. He read them inthe great living compartment of the Platform with its sixty-foot lengthand its carpet on floor and ceiling, and the galleries without stairsoutside the sleeping cabins. He sat in a chair with thigh grips to holdhim in place, and he wore a gravity simulation harness. It wasnecessary. The regular crew of the Platform, by this time, couldn't havehandled space wagons in action against enemy manned rockets. Joe meantto stay able to take acceleration.
It was just as he finished his mail that Brent came in.
"Big news!" said Brent. "They're building a big new ship of newdesign--almost half as big as the Platform. With concreted metal theycan do it in weeks."
"What's it for?" demanded Joe.
"It'll be a human base on the Moon," said Brent relievedly. "Anexpedition will start in six weeks, according to plan. As long as we'rethe only American base in space, we're going to be shot at. But a baseon the Moon will be invulnerable. So they're going ahead with it."
Joe said hopefully:
"Any orders for me to join it?"
Brent shook his head. "We're to be loaded up with supplies for the Moonexpedition. We're to be ready to take a robot ship every round.Actually, they can't hope to send us more than two a day for a while,but even that'll be eighty tons of supplies to be stored away."
The Chief grumbled, but somehow his grumbling did not sound genuine."They're going to the Moon--and leave us here to do stevedore stuff?"His tone was odd. He looked at a letter he'd been reading and gave uppretense. He said self-consciously: "Listen, you guys.... My tribe's gotall excited. I just got a letter from the council. They've been havingan argument about me. Wanna hear?"
He was a little amused, and a little embarrassed, but something hadhappened to make him feel good.
"Let's have it," said Joe. Mike was very still in another chair. Hedidn't look up, though he must have heard. Haney cocked an interestedear.
The Chief said awkwardly, "You know--us Mohawks are kinda proud. We gotsomething to be proud of. We were one of the Five Nations, when that wasa sort of United Nations and all Europe was dog-eat-dog. My tribe had abig pow-wow about me. There's a tribe member that's a professor ofanthropology out in Chicago. He was there. And a couple of guys that doelectronic research, and doctors and farmers and all sorts of guys. AllMohawks. They got together in tribal council."
He stopped and flushed under his dark skin. "I wouldn't tell you, onlyyou guys are in on it."
Still he hesitated. Joe found a curious picture forming in his mind.He'd known the Chief a long time, and he knew that part of the tribelived in Brooklyn, and individual members were widely scattered. Butstill there was a certain remote village which to all the tribesmen washome. Everybody went back there from time to time, to rest from thestrangeness of being Indians in a world of pale-skinned folk.
Joe could almost imagine the council. There'd be old, old men who couldnearly remember the days of the tribe's former glory, who'd heardstories of forest warfare and zestful hunts, and scalpings and heroicdeeds from their grandfathers. But there were also doctors and lawyersand technical men in that council which met to talk about the Chief.
"It's addressed to me," said the Chief with sudden clumsiness, "in theWorld-by-itself Canoe. That's the Platform here. And it says--I'll haveto translate, because it's in Mohawk." He took a deep breath. "It says,'We your tribesmen have heard of your journeyings off the Earth wheremen have never traveled before. This has given us great pride, that oneof our tribe and kin had ventured so valiantly.'" The Chief grinnedabashedly. He went on. "'In full assembly, the elders of the tribe haveheld counsel on a way to express their pride in you, and in the friendsyou have made who accompanied you. It was proposed that you be given anew name to be borne by your sons after you. It was proposed that thetribe accept from each of its members a gift to be given you in the nameof the tribe. But these were not considered great enough. Therefore thetribe, in full council, has decreed that your name shall be named atevery tribal council of the Mohawks from this day to the end of time, asone the young braves would do well to copy in all ways. And the names ofyour friends Joe Kenmore, Mike Scandia, and Thomas Haney shall also benamed as friends whose like all young braves should strive to seek outand to be.'"
The Chief sweated a little, but he looked enormously proud. Joe wentover to him and shook hands warmly. The Chief almost broke his fingers.It was, of course, as high an honor as could be paid to anybody by thepeople who paid it.
Haney said awkwardly, "Lucky they don't know me like you do, Chief. Butit's swell!"
Which it was. But Mike hadn't said a word. The Chief said exuberantly:
"Did you hear that, Mike? Every Mohawk for ten thousand years is gonnabe told that you were a swell guy! Crazy, huh?"
Mike said in an odd voice: "Yeah. I didn't mean that, Chief. It's fine!But I--I got a letter. I--never thought to get a letter like this."
He looked unbelievingly at the paper in his hands.
"Mash note?" asked the Chief. His tone was a little bit harsh. Mike wasa midget. And there were women who were fools. It would be unbearable ifsome half-witted female had written Mike the sort of gushing letterthat some half-witted females might write.
Mike shook his head, with an odd, quick smile.
"Not what you think, Chief. But it is from a girl. She sent me herpicture. It's a--swell letter. I'm--going to answer it. You can look ather picture. She looks kind of--nice."
He handed the Chief a snapshot. The Chief's face changed. Haney lookedover his shoulder. He passed the picture to Joe and said ferociously:"You Mike! You doggoned Don Juan! The Chief and me have got to warn herwhat kinda guy you are! Stealing from blind men! Fighting cops----"
Joe looked at the picture. It was a very sweet small face, and the eyesthat looked out of the photograph were very honest and yearning. And Joeunderstood. He grinned at Mike. Because this girl had the distinctivelook that Mike had. She was a midget, too.
"She's--thirty-nine inches tall," said Mike, almost stunned. "She's justtwo inches shorter than me. And--she says she doesn't mind being amidget so much since she heard about me. I'm going to write her."
But it would be, of course, a long time before there was a way for mailto get down to Earth.
It was a long time. Now it was possible to send up robot rockets to thePlatform. They came up. When the second arrived, Haney went out to pullit in. Joe forgot to notify Brown, in writing, an hour before launchinga rocket recovery vehicle (space wagon) according to paragraph 3 of theformal memo, nor the time of laun
ching in hours, minutes, etc., byGreenwich Mean Time (paragraph 4), nor was the testing of all equipmentmade before moving it into the airlock. This was because the testingequipment was in the airlock, where it belonged. And the commands forlaunching were not given by Brown or an officer designated by him,because Joe forgot all about it.
Brown made a stormy scene about the matter, and Joe was honestlyapologetic, but the Chief and Haney and Mike glared venomously.
The result was completely inconclusive. Joe had not been put underBrown's command. He and his crew were the only people on the Platformphysically in shape to operate the space wagons, considering theacceleration involved. Brent and the others were wearing gravitysimulators, and were building back to strength. But they weren't up topar as yet. They'd been in space too long.
So there was nothing Brown could do. He retreated into icily correct,outraged dignity. And the others hauled in and unloaded rockets as theyarrived. They came up fast. The processes of making them had beenimproved. They could be made faster, heated to sintering temperaturefaster, and the hulls cooled to usefulness in a quarter of the formertime. The production of space ship hulls went up to four a day, whilethe molds for the Moonship were being worked even faster. The Moonship,actually, was assembled from precast individual cells which then werewelded together. It would have features the Platform lacked, because itwas designed to be a base for exploration and military activities inaddition to research.
But only twenty days after the recovery and docking of the first robotship to rise, a new sort of ship entirely came blindly up as a robot.The little space wagons hauled it to the airlock and inside. Theyunloaded it--and it was no longer a robot. It was a modified hulldesigned for the duties of a tug in space. It could carry a crew offour, and its cargohold was accessible from the cabin. It had anairlock. More, it carried a cargo of solid-fuel rockets which could beshifted to firing racks outside its hull. Starting from the platform,where it had no effective weight, it was capable of direct descent tothe Earth without spiralling or atmospheric braking. To make thatdescent it would, obviously, expend four-fifths of its loaded weight inrockets. And since it had no weight at the Platform, but only mass, itwas capable of far-ranging journeying. It could literally take off fromthe Platform and reach the Moon and land on it, and then return to thePlatform.
But that had to wait.
"Sure we could do it," agreed Joe, when Mike wistfully pointed out thepossibility. "It would be good to try it. But unfortunately, spaceexploration isn't a stunt. We've gotten this far because--somebodywanted to do something. But----" Then he said, "It could be done and theUnited Nations wouldn't do it. So the United States had to, or--somebodyelse would have. You can figure who that would be, and what use they'dmake of space travel! So it's important. It's more important than stuntflights we could make!"
"Nobody could stop us if we wanted to take off!" Mike said rebelliously.
"True," Joe said. "But we four can stand three gravities accelerationand handle any more manned rockets that start out here. We've livedthrough plenty more than that! But Brent and the others couldn't put upa fight in space. They're wearing harness now, and they're coming backto strength. But we're going to stay right here and do stevedoring--andfighting too, if it comes to that--until the job is done."
And that was the way it was, too. Of stevedoring there was plenty. Tworobot ships a day for weeks on end. Three ships a day for a time. Four.Sometimes things went smoothly, and the little space wagons could go outand bring back the great, rocket-scarred hulls from Earth. But once inthree times the robots were going too fast or too slow. The space wagonscouldn't handle them. Then the new ship, the space tug, went out andhooked onto the robot with a chain and used the power it had to bringthem to their destination. And sometimes the robots didn't climbstraight. At least once the space tug captured an erratic robot 400miles from its destination and hauled it in. It used some heavysolid-fuel rockets on that trip.
The Platform had become, in fact, a port in space, though so far it hadhad only arrivals and no departures. Its storage compartments almostbulged with fuel stores and food stores and equipment of everyimaginable variety. It had a stock of rockets which were enough to landit safely on Earth, though there was surely no intention of doing so. Ithad food and air for centuries. It had repair parts for all its ownequipment. And it had weapons. It contained, in robot hulls anchored toits sides, enough fissionable material to conduct a deadly war--whichwas only stored for transfer to the Moon base when that should beestablished.
And it had communication with Earth of high quality. So far the actualmail was only a one-way service, but even entertainment came up, andnews. Once there was a television shot of the interior of the Shed. Itwas carefully scrambled before transmission, but it was a hearteningsight. The Shed on the TV screen appeared a place of swarming activity.Robot hulls were being made. They were even improved, fined down to tentons of empty weight apiece, and their controls were assembly lineproducts now. And there was the space flight simulator with menpracticing in it, although for the time being only robots were takingoff from Earth. And there was the Moonship.
It didn't look like the Platform, but rather like something a childmight have put together out of building blocks. It was built up out ofwelded-together cells with strengthening members added. It was 60 feethigh from the floor and twice as long, and it did not weigh nearly whatit seemed to. Already it was being clad in that thick layer of heatinsulation it would need to endure the two-week-long lunar night. Itcould take off very soon now.
The pictured preparations back on Earth meant round-the-clock drudgeryfor Joe and the others. They wore themselves out. But the storage spaceon the Platform filled up. Days and weeks went by. Then there came atime when literally nothing else could be stored, so Joe and his crewmade ready to go back to Earth.
They ate hugely and packed a very small cargo in their ship. They pickedup one bag of mail and four bags of scientific records and photographswhich had only been transmitted by facsimile TV before. They got intothe space tug. It floated free.
"_You will fire in ten seconds_," said a crisp voice in Joe'sheadphones. "_Ten ... nine ... eight ... seven ... six ... five ... four... three ... two ... one ... fire!_"
Joe crooked his index finger. There was an explosive jolt. Rocketsflamed terribly in emptiness. The space tug rushed toward the west. ThePlatform seemed to dwindle with startling suddenness. It seemed to rushaway and become lost in the myriads of stars. The space tug acceleratedat four gravities in the direction opposed to its orbital motion.
As the acceleration built up, it dropped toward Earth and home like atumbled stone.
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