by Phoenix Ship
"Why ... I was going to look for a job."
Paulsen looked at him in disbelief, then threw back his head and guffawed. Then, "With a thousand shares of AT in his clip, the guy wants to go out and look for a jobl Well, well." More soberly he asked, "Do you realize that with those shares you could practically buy the Belt? A fair slice of it, anyhow."
Stan's thoughts were chaotic as he began to grasp the implications of what the other had been saying. Finally, "Well, maybe it's . . . What would you do?"
"Actually, I don't know just what I would do."
The two sat silent for a minute. Then Stan said, "Maybe I should get a job until I find and speak to somebody that my uncle trusted."
"I know who the retired partner is that ran the school. I think he's even at Belt City. You oughta be able to trust him, I'd think. Lang. Dr. Katsu Lang."
Belt City had originally been a chunk of nickel steel approximately twenty-five miles in diameter. In terms of planets, this was practically microscopic; but in terms of the size of particles in the Belt, it was relatively large.
At first it had served as a base for small technological operations, mainly because of its mass. Later it had served those who were interested in the mass itself, and the nickel steel had been carved off in chunks and pieces and carted away; while other chunks and pieces of it had been drilled and bored on the spot to fashion crude reaction vessels for this or that in the line of chemistry.
It was then that Alfibe had taken over; the Alfibe Corporation was using the vacuum of space to make boron into microscopically thin fibers of tensile strengths far higher than any of the metallic alloys. Boron fiber was not new; it was just that space vacuum made it newly inexpensive to manufacture. On Earth, mass production had brought the costs down from seven hundred credits a pound to seventy credits a pound. Here the fibers could be made for seven microcredits a pound—and a pound was a lot of fiber.
The boron fiber was a major trade item with Earth; but for use in the Belt it was combined with aluminum from asteroids that were towed in for mining, to create a metal of tensile strengths fourteen times stronger than steel, pound for pound—and a pound went a lot further.
So Belt City grew. Port facilities that had been built for the boron fiber trade were enlarged for Belt trade in Alfibe; were enlarged again as corporations were formed to build Alfibe ships for the Belt.
Where port facilities are available, every form of manufacture for trade will move in. It wasn't long before the surface of the planetoid, as well as its mined caverns, were crowded.
That was when the Belt City Corporation was formed, its board of directors made up of the heads of the corporations that supported and were supported by the planetoid; its major duty was overseeing the G-swing and the balance of industry—in this instance, the weight balance of industry.
The terms "gravity" and "G's" were commonly used, but the weight effect was by centrifugal force, and the G-swing necessary to keep that force evenly applied was constantly being upset by new heavy industry moving in, by new construction that failed to take into account the balance and counterbalance necessary to prevent wobbles. The wobbles were not only upsetting to the manufacture going on, but had proved several times nearly disastrous to the vast hydroponic farms and the "ranches" where meat was grown in vats, the necessary core factors to any Belt habitation; and the swing-weight of the city was shown to be too critical a survival factor to be left longer at hazard to unplanned activity.
The first and gigantically expensive but necessary act of the BC Corp. was the construction of an even flooring over the entire scalloped-looking built-up portion of the planetoid, a section around the equator that extended roughly thirty degrees to the north and south. It was flooring, not ceiling, since centrifugal force applies outward, and the floors of the existing structures were toward space, the ceilings toward the planetoid core.
The second and concomitant—and quite as necessary—act was the contraction of hull-style river systems immediately over the new floor. The rivers were for inertia] control of rotation with huge tanks to provide for balance and counterbalance; they also served as the medium for growth of sea life and plankton as an additional source of food, and as a far superior method to the simple hydroponics one for recycling air and waste products.
That was the start of the planned growth of Belt City; and because of the planning it was now possible to really grow. New overall floors were needed and constructed almost immediately, always as a unit, surfaced with built-in rivers. Transportation systems for freight and people intertwined through the growing structures in an orderly and efficient manner. The internal ecology was protected from sabotage by unthinking corporate or individual action.
And always, as the city grew, the growing hydroponics farms moved outward to the rim where the plants could take full advantage of the highest accelerative stress. There were plants that would grow with practically no gravity; there were others that wouldn't grow without at least three-quarters G; but almost all grew best where the gravity was most nearly Earth-like. So the G-swing was set to maintain a full gravity at the rim, leaving the lower areas to their proportionate heights; and the plants that were the city's sustenance were given top priority on that best-growth potential section. People-comfort was never more than a secondary consideration, though the schools were kept on the rim, which gave the children a full G during part of the day; and enough credits could buy you space between the farms.
Now Belt City hung in space, a wedge-shaped wheel around the central nickel-steel core that was itself cav-emed and structured for man's use. The floors that made its rim extended now more than twelve miles out from the original surface; and where the original sixty degrees at the equator had given the first flooring a width of twelve miles equal to its radius, the outside rim was now nearer twenty-four miles across.
From the north and south poles of the planetoid, taking advantage of the null-G at these axes, the long strands of docking and transportation tubes of a space-dock complex were strung out. The tubes extended a good thirty miles beyond the non-rotating caps by which they were attached to the rotating asteroids; and each ship that docked was tethered and serviced by several of the tubes.
Fan-powered strut-cars traveled the tubes from ship to planetoid-cap, then dived across to c»mplimentary tubes in the rotating structure of the planetoid itself.
There were parts of Belt City that gave the impression of being crowded; and there were places where people were likely to be only once a year, or perhaps even less; other places people, went only to work. All of the areas were served with air and heat and power and freight and transportation by the tubes and their strut-cars that efficiently serviced the entirety of the inside-out asteroid that was Belt City.
"The docking tubes look like a man-of-war's tendrils, with the ships its prey," Stan said softly, watching the planetoid enlarge on the Sassy Lassie's viewscreen. "Or like a net for invaders."
Paulsen looked at him in surprise. "I reckon they do look a bit like that," he said finally in satisfaction. "The docking tubes are the green ones. The passenger tubes are yellow. The freight tubes are the red ones. And the orange ones are the smaller tubes in which liquids can be carried without being loaded into jungle-gyms."
"Jungle gyms?"
"Boy, as much as I've been educating you, there are still gaps!" Paulsen smiled ruefully. "Tubecars you use on Earth, because that's an induction-repulsion linear motor vacuum system. Pneumocars you have at Orbdocks, where the tubes are air-filled, and the cars can run on battery-powered fans. But pneumocars are built for comfort, and they're a luxury we haven't gotten around to out here. Here we have the air-filled tubes and the battery-powered fans, but the cars behind the fans are just . . . well, jungle-gym affairs that you can strap freight into or people can ride sitting on the bars. They have floors and skirts for use in C fields, but the rest is just a batch of struts. They're formally called strut-cars."
Expertly the skipper matched orbits with the as
teroid, then maneuvered slowly until the Lassie hung at the tips of a ganglion of different colored tubes. He reached over and flipped a switch marked MAGNALOCK, activating powerful magnetic coils at various spots on the hull, and with a soft thump each of the green tubes reached out and sucked onto the coil-area that matched its code-pulse.
"We're docked," he said succinctly. "Now to air lock us into the passenger and freight systems."
While Paulsen worked over the controls, Stan watched on the screen as a great yellow tube bent slowly and unwillingly, stretched a bit, and then made contact with the magnetic coil around the air lock, its internal pressures resisting every motion but being slowly overcome by the magnetic attraction between its head and the coils. The action was repeated with one of the red tubes, which was made to seek its own type of pulse-code and fall into place over the access lock that would have led into the Lassie's missing freightnut
"Okay, bud," Paulsen said, unstrapping himself almost as the red tube thumped into place, "here's where we get lost. You think you can fly the tubes? Now that you can see how far out we are? Or had we better take a chance on the strut-cars? We could go freight. . . ."
"I can fly," said Stan shortly and unstrapped to push his way in the null G toward the freightlock where they'd already prepared their wings and fins.
He was wearing one of Paulsen's bright red pilot's suits now. "You better be in spacemen's outfit," Paulsen had said. "Wear mine until we can get you some of your own." "But they're pilot-red," Stan had objected, "and I'm not a pilot. How do I get to be one?" "By flying a ship," said Paulsen. "Here, fly this one and do me a few navigation problems." It had been as simple as that. Once he had proved to a competent pilot his ability to fly and navigate a ship he was entitled to wear pilot-red. His gold belt, though, was his own.
The wing and tail outfits they would wear, flying the tubes, had been blown up in advance, and Stan had practiced getting into them, had been instructed carefully in their use. They hung now in the air lock, ready: two stub-wings, scarcely longer than his arms and shaped somewhat like a bee's wings, and a seven-foot tail that would run from his waist to wellbelow his feet.
In the null G he had no trouble slipping his feet into the foot-grips about halfway down the length of the tail, belting it to him with the belt that went around his waist, then reaching down and pulling the wing-straps across his shoulders, slipping his hands into the handholds of the wings. Gently and experimentally he moved a wing, and found himself caroming into the air lock side.
"Save it for the tube," said Paulsen shortly, palming open the air lock bulkhead before slipping his hand into his own wing-grip.
Before them the tube stretched out, an eerily glowing red diminishing to a point in the far distance; infinitely long, infinitely fragile, seen from here. Stan made an involuntary motion and found himself flying into Paulsen, who swung out his arms in counteraction and was propelled out of the air lock into a long glide down the tube. But he kicked his feet up at the knees, and then snapped them down to come to rest spread-eagled across the three-yard diameter tube, wings and tail touching the sides.
"Watch out for those unintended movements," he called back. "Did you see the stop I made? Do you get the idea?"
"I think so. Every slightest movement sure counts."
"Yep. Tail motion is the most important part, though, remember. A gentle up-down swish of the tail with the arms held rigid will give you plenty of speed. The arms can propel too, if you're in a real burry. If you want to stop, just flip yourself over like I did, but don't forget to straighten out, or you'll keep right on tumbling. I'm going ahead. You come on along."
Widi that, Paulsen pulled his wings down toward his body, flipped them, straightened them out, and dove off down the tube, tail undulating in a smooth powerful stroke that had him diniinishing down the tube like a bird in flight.
Poised on the hp of the air lock, Stan tucked his head down to line it with the direction of flight and slipped his wings open. His head scraped the tunnel, slid along it. He kicked his tail, found himself twisting, and brought his wings into play again. He was moving rapidly, but his head was scraping first one side then the other.
In automatic reflex, he pulled up his feet The tail flipped over, flipping him end over end in a wall-to-wall passage down the tunnel. Frantically he pushed his feet out, pinioning his wings. His head buried itself deeply into the soft wall of the tube. He threw his arms and legs wide, and found himself stopped, spread-eagled across the tunnel.
Dizzy, he looked around. There was the tube, stretching away from him. His wings looked a bloody red in the eerie light. And Paulsen would be far ahead by now.
Carefully, he pulled in his wings, gave a light flutter to his tail. He was moving down the tube, but scraping from wall to wall. Experimentally he balanced his wings, flapped them gently. The motion, tried gently, centered him more or less in the tunnel, so long as the tail flapped evenly and slowly. The walls of the tube were moving past at a fair rate, and he was scraping them very little. He increased the motion of his tail. His speed increased violently—and his head rammed firmly into a hard surface.
Summoning every bit of presence of mind he possessed, he flipped his tail, then straightened it, threw out his wings, and landed spread across the tube—facing the closed bulkhead of the Sassy Lassie's air lock.
"Damn," he muttered, "ITl never get to Twelfth and Main this way."
Very cautiously now, Stan fanned himself around one wing, aimed himself down the tube and flapped his wings gently once. It worked. Slowly and smoothly he took off down the tunnel. With care he added a tail motion, but the two legs moved not quite in unison. His speed increased, but the slightly uneven motion added a vector of steering for which he had to compensate rapidly. He was caroming from side to side, but he found himself compensating with more and more efficiency.
His speed was remarkably high, he noted, as the walls of the tube seemed to wobble past his erratic motion; but he was tiring. It was hard work. He knew that once he got into a good, stable glide headed along the center, he could rest; inertia would keep him going. But he was still awkwardly wing-and-tail tipping the walls when he heard a shout in the distance.
"Halloo," he answered.
"Junction here. Can you follow me?" The voice was coming much louder now, and by craning his neck he could see the rapidlv ncaring figure spread across the tunneL
"Move or I'll run you down!" he shouted.
"Pull up your knees, then straighten out," was the reply, too near.
Stan pulled his knees up, then straightened them violently, and found his head thrust firmly into the plastic wall, while his tail scraped to a rest on the opposite wall.
"That's how vou stop." Paulsen's noncommital voice was only feet away. "You get started like this."
Paulsen drew his wings in across his chest, ducked his head and allowed the tail to give him a slight lack forward, snapped the wings open again and was off down the tunnel.
Stan started to try it, found himself confused, stopped. Suddenly he couldn't remember the first motion.
Abruptly he let go, relaxed, and let his arms and legs take over. With relief, he let natural motions replace the forced ones he'd been using; slow motions that didn't demand strength, only gentle undulations that took him faster and faster.
In the near distance he heard a call: "Right turn. Kick only your right leg when you get here." It was a Y-branch, and his turn was not smooth, but the compensations were coming naturally now.
Cautiously he craned his neck and sighted Paulsen not too far ahead. There were tiny lights further ahead, too, and Stan quit kicking, allowing himself to glide along at a speed he guessed to be in excess of fifty-five miles an hour.
"Stretch your legs apart and slow down."
He stretched his legs as far as he could force them, and was rewarded with a fluttering, vibrating sensation from the tail fin, and a simultaneous rapid slowing of his forward motion. The stiffening tube members in the tail had bee
n pulled flat by his action, allowing the plastic between to wrinkle and flutter in an action that absorbed energy rapidly.
"Okay. Park. Or are you going to run me down?" came the call.
Stan kicked both legs up and back, and once more succeeded in ramming his head into the soft plastic wall, but this time he was going too fast The tail scraped the far wall and snapped open again beyond it, leaving him still sailing down the tunnel, but feet-first, a direction of travel for which the device hadn't been intended. The flexible wings bent and tried to wrap themselves around his arms, buffeting him madly first against one wall and then the other. The tail bent too, and forced his legs into a crouch position; and then—snap—he was headed down the tunnel head-first again, but with most of his momentum gone. Again he tried to brake, and this time was successful.
"Fanciest stop I've seen yet," Paulsen greeted him.
Stan was about to give a short reply when he looked beyond Paulsen to a large open chamber full of moving tubecars that looked like they'd been stripped for action. Freight was fastened haphazardly into the frameworks.
One of the strut-cars—an object sized to fit neady into the tubes, its three-yard fan covered with a mesh grille, its rear simply a tubular jungle-gym—was heading straight for their tube. The monster fan looked lethal for all its grille-mesh protective covering.
"Look outl" Stan yelled. "That freighter wants in. It's going to try to chase us back up the tube."
Paulsen turned in a leisurely fashion as the huge freighter came to a snarling halt about three yards outside the tube, and hung there buzzing at them like an angry, oversize bee.
"It can't come in while we're here."
"Oh . . . good. Hey, could we reprogram one of those to take us where we want to go?"
"Could. But it wouldn't be a good idea. The dispatcher would get hep to us. Those things have a tracer on them, in case they go wrong and somebody has to come out to correct them. It's easier to hitch a ride on one that's going our way. You think you can handle an open space like this? Fly it, I mean?"