The Murray Leinster Megapack

by Murray Leinster

  It was very bad. It seemed to last for centuries.

  Then the jatos burned out. There was that ghastly feeling of lunging forward to weightlessness. One instant, Joe’s body weighed half a ton. The next instant, it weighed less than a dust grain. His head throbbed twice as if his skull were about to split open and let his brains run out. But these things he had experienced before.

  There were pantings in the cabin about him. The ship fell. It happened to be going up, but the sensation and the fact was free fall. Joe had been through this before, too. He gasped for breath and croaked, “Drones?”

  “Right,” said Haney.

  Mike panted anxiously, “Four’s off course. I’ll fix it.”

  The Chief grunted guttural Mohawk. His hands stirred on the panel for remote control of the drones he had to handle.

  “Crazy!” he growled. “Got it now, Joe. Fire when ready.”

  “Okay, Mike?”

  A half-second pause.

  “Okay!”

  Joe pressed the firing-button for the take-off rockets. And he was slammed back into his acceleration chair again. But this was three gravities only. Pressed heavily against the acceleration cushions, he could perform the navigation for the fleet. He did. The mother-ship had to steer a true course, regardless of the vagaries of its rockets. The drones had simply to be kept in formation with it. The second task was simpler. But Joe was relieved, this time, of the need to report back instrument-readings. A telemetering device took care of that.

  The take-off rockets blasted and blasted and blasted. The mere matter of staying alive grew very tedious. The ordeal seemed to last for centuries. Actually it could be measured only in minutes. But it seemed millennia before the headphones said, staccato fashion: “You are on course and will reach speed in fourteen seconds. I will count for you.”

  “Relays for rocket release,” panted Joe. “Throw ’em over!”

  Three hands moved to obey. Joe could release the drive rockets on all seven ships at will.

  The voice counted:

  “Ten…nine…eight…seven…six…five…four…three…two…one…cut!”

  Joe pressed the master-key. The remnants of the solid-fuel take-off rockets let go. They flashed off into nothingness at unbelievable speed, consuming themselves as they went.

  There was again no weight.

  This time there was no resting. No eager gazing out the cabin ports. Now they weren’t curious. They’d had over a month in space, and something like sixteen days back on Earth, and now they were back in space again.

  Mike and Haney and the Chief worked doggedly at their control boards. The radar bowls outside the cabin shifted and moved and quivered. The six drone ships showed on the screens. But they also had telemetering apparatus. They faithfully reported their condition and the direction in which their bows pointed. The radars plotted their position with relation to each other and the mother-ship.

  Presently Joe cast a glance out of a port and saw that the dark line of sunset was almost below. The take-off had been timed to get the ships into Earth’s shadow above the area from which war rockets were most likely to rise. It wouldn’t prevent bombing, of course. But there was a gadget.…

  Joe spoke into the microphone: “Reporting everything all right so far. But you know it.”

  The voice from solid ground said, “Report acknowledged.”

  The ships went on and on and on. The Chief muttered to himself and made very minute adjustments of the movement of one of his drones. Mike fussed with his. Haney regarded the controls of his drones with a profound calm.

  Nothing happened, except that they seemed to be falling into a bottomless pit and their stomach-muscles knotted and cramped in purely reflex response to the sensation. Even that grew tedious.

  The headphones said, “You will enter Earth’s shadow in three minutes. Prepare for combat.”

  Joe said drily, “We’re to prepare for combat.”

  The Chief growled. “I’d like to do just that!”

  The phrasing, of course, was intentional—in case enemy ears were listening. Actually, the small fleet was to use a variant on the tin can shield which protected the Platform. It would be most effective if visual observation was impossible. The fleet was seven ships in very ragged formation. Most improbably, after the long three-gravity acceleration, they were still within a fifty-mile globe of space. Number Four loitered behind, but was being brought up by judicious bursts of steering-rocket fire. Number Two was some distance ahead. The others were simply scattered. They went floating on like a group of meteors. Out the ports, two of them were visible. The others might be picked out by the naked eye—but it wasn’t likely.

  Drone Two, far ahead and clearly visible, turned from a shining steel speck to a reddish pin-point of light. The red color deepened. It winked out. The sunlight in the ports of the mother-ship turned red. Then it blacked out.

  “Shoot the ghosts,” said Joe.

  The three drone-handlers pushed their buttons. Nothing happened that anybody could see. Actually, though, a small gadget outside the hull began to cough rhythmically. Similar devices on the drones coughed, too. They were small, multiple-barreled guns. Rifle shells fired two-pound missiles at random targets in emptiness. They wouldn’t damage anything they hit. They’d go varying distances, explode and shoot small lead shot ahead to check their missile-velocity, and then emit dense masses of aluminum foil. There was no air resistance. The shredded foil would continue to move through emptiness at the same rate as the convoy-fleet. The seven ships had fired a total of eighty-four such objects away into the blackness of Earth’s shadow. There were, then, seven ships and eighty-four masses of aluminum foil moving through emptiness. They could not be seen by telescopes.

  And radars could not tell ships from masses of aluminum foil.

  If enemy radars came probing upward, they reported ninety-one space ships in ragged but coherent formation, soaring through emptiness toward the Platform. And a fleet like that was too strong to attack.

  The radar operators had been prepared to forward details of the speed and course of a single ship to waiting rocket-launching submarines half-way across the Pacific. But they reported to Very High Authority instead.

  He received the report of an armada—an incredible fleet—in space. He didn’t believe it. But he didn’t dare disbelieve it.

  So the fleet swam peacefully through the darkness that was Earth’s shadow, and no attempt at attack was made. They came out into sunlight to look down at the western shore of America itself. With seven ships to get on an exact course, at an exact speed, at an exact moment, time was needed. So the fleet made almost a complete circuit of the Earth before reaching the height of the Platform’s orbit.

  They joined it. A single man in a space suit, anchored to its outer plates, directed a plastic hose which stretched out impossibly far and clamped to one drone with a magnetic grapple. He maneuvered it to the hull and made it fast. He captured a second, which was worked delicately within reach by coy puffs of steering-rocket vapor.

  One by one, the drones were made fast. Then the manned ship went in the lock and the great outer door closed, and the plastic-fabric walls collapsed behind their nets, and air came in.

  Lieutenant Commander Brown was the one to come into the lock to greet them. He shook hands all around—and it again seemed strange to all the four from Earth to find themselves with their feet more or less firmly planted on a solid floor, but their bodies wavering erratically to right and left and before and back, because there was no up or down.

  “Just had reports from Earth,” Brown told Joe comfortably. “The news of your take-off was released to avoid panic in Europe. But everybody who doesn’t like us is yelling blue murder. Somebody—you may guess who—is announcing that a fleet of ninety-one war rockets took off from the United States and now hangs poised in space while the decadent American war-mongers prepare an ultimatum to all the world. Everybody’s frightened.”

  “If they’ll only stay scar
ed until we get unloaded,” said Joe in some satisfaction, “the government back home can tell them how many we were and what we came up for. But we’ll probably make out all right, anyhow.”

  “My crew will unload,” said Brown, in conscious thoughtfulness. “You must have gotten pretty well exhausted by that acceleration.”

  Joe shook his head. “I think we can handle the freight faster. We found out a few things by going back to Earth.”

  A section of plating at the top of the lock—at least it had been the top when the Platform was built on Earth—opened up as on the first journey here. A face grinned down. But from this point on, the procedure was changed. Haney and Joe went into the cargo-section of the rocketship and heaved its contents smoothly through weightlessness to the storage chamber above. The Chief and Mike stowed it there. The speed and precision of their work was out of all reason. Brown stared incredulously.

  The fact was simply that on their first trip to the Platform, Joe and his crew didn’t know how to use their strength where there was no weight. By the time they’d learned, their muscles had lost all tone. Now they were fresh from Earth, with Earth-strength muscles—and they knew how to use them.

  “When we got back,” Joe told Brown, “we were practically invalids. No exercise up here. This time we’ve brought some harness to wear. We’ve some for you, too.”

  They moved out of the airlock, and the ship was maneuvered to a mooring outside, and a drone took its place. Brown’s eyes blinked at the unloading of the drone. But he said, “Navy style work, that!”

  “Out here,” said Joe, “you take no more exercise than an invalid on Earth—in fact, not as much. By now the original crew would have trouble standing up on a trip back to Earth. You’d feel pretty heavy, yourself.”

  Brown frowned.

  “Hm. I—ah—I shall ask for instructions on the matter.”

  He stood erect. He didn’t waver on his feet as the others did. But he wore the same magnetic-soled shoes. Joe knew, with private amusement, that Brown must have worked hard to get a dignified stance in weightlessness.

  “Mr. Kenmore,” said Brown suddenly. “Have you been assigned a definite rank as yet?”

  “Not that I know of,” said Joe without interest. “I skipper the ship I just brought up. But—”

  “Your ship has no rating!” protested Brown irritably. “The skipper of a Navy ship may be anything from a lieutenant junior grade to a captain, depending on the size and rating of the ship. In certain circumstances even a noncommissioned officer. Are you an enlisted man?”

  “Again, not that I know of,” Joe told him. “Nor my crew, either.”

  Brown looked at once annoyed and distressed.

  “It isn’t regular!” he objected. “It isn’t shipshape! I should know whether you are under my command or not! For discipline! For organization! It should be cleared up! I shall put through an urgent inquiry.”

  Joe looked at him incredulously. Lieutenant Commander Brown was a perfectly amiable man, but he had to have things in a certain pattern for him to recognize that they were in a pattern at all. He was more excited over the fact that he didn’t know whether he ranked Joe, than over the much more important matter of physical deterioration in the absence of gravity. Yet he surely understood their relative importance. The fact was, of course, that he could confidently expect exact instructions about the last, while he had to settle matters of discipline and routine for himself.

  “I shall ask for clarification of your status,” he said worriedly. “It shouldn’t have been left unclear. I’d better attend to it at once.”

  He looked at Joe as if expecting a salute. He didn’t get it. He clanked away, his magnetic shoe-soles beating out a singularly martial rhythm. He must have practised that walk, in private.

  Joe got out of the airlock as another of the space barges was warped in. Brent, the crew’s psychologist, joined him when he went to unload. Brent nodded in a friendly fashion to Joe.

  “Quite a change, eh?” he said drily. “Sanford turned out to be a crackpot with his notions of grandeur. I’m not sure that Brown’s notions of discipline aren’t worse.”

  Joe said, “I’ve something rather important to pass on,” and told about the newly discovered physical effects of a long stay where there was no gravity. The doctors now predicted that anybody who spent six months without weight would suffer a deterioration of muscle tone which could make a return to Earth impossible without a long preliminary process of retraining. One’s heart would adjust to the absence of any need to pump blood against gravity.

  “Which,” said Joe, “means that you’re going to have to be relieved before too long. But we brought up some gravity-simulator harness that may help.”

  Brent said desolately: “And I was so pleased! We all had trouble with insomnia, at first, but lately we’ve all been sleeping well! Now I see why! Normally one sleeps because he’s tired. We had trouble sleeping until our muscles got so weak we tired anyhow!”

  Another drone came in and was unloaded. And another and another. But the last of them wasn’t only unloaded. Haney took over the Platform’s control board and—grinning to himself—sent faint, especially-tuned short wave impulses to the steering-rockets of the drone. The liquid-fuel rockets were designed to steer a loaded ship. With the airlock door open, the silvery ship leaped out of the dock like a frightened horse. The liquid-fuel rocket had a nearly empty hull to accelerate. It responded skittishly.

  Joe watched out a port as it went hurtling away. The vast Earth rolled beneath it. It sped on and vanished. Its fumes ceased to be visible. Joe told Brent:

  “Another nice job, that! We sent it backward, slowing it a little. It’ll have a new orbit, independent of ours and below it. But come sixty hours it will be directly underneath. We’ll haul it up and refuel it. And our friends the enemy will hate it. It’s a radio repeater. It’ll pick up short-wave stuff beamed to it, and repeat it down to Earth. And they can try to jam that!”

  It was a mildly malicious trick to play. Behind the Iron Curtain, broadcasts from the free world couldn’t be heard because of stations built to emit pure noise and drown them out. But the jamming stations were on the enemy nations’ borders. If radio programs came down from overhead, jamming would be ineffective at least in the center of the nations. Populations would hear the truth, even though their governments objected.

  But that was a minor matter, after all. With space ship hulls coming into being by dozens, and with one convoy of hundreds of tons of equipment gotten aloft, the whole picture of supply for the Platform had changed.

  Part of the new picture was two devices that Haney and the Chief were assembling. They were mostly metal backbone and a series of tanks, with rocket motors mounted on ball and socket joints. They looked like huge red insects, but they were officially rocket recovery vehicles, and Joe’s crew referred to them as space wagons. They had no cabin, but something like a saddle. Before it there was a control-board complete with radar-screens. And there were racks to which solid-fuel rockets of divers sizes could be attached. They were literally short-range tow craft for travel in space. They had the stripped, barren look of farm machinery. So the name “space wagon” fitted. There were two of them.

  “We’re putting the pair together,” the Chief told Joe. “Looks kinda peculiar.”

  “It’s only for temporary use,” said Joe. “There’s a bigger and better one being built with a regular cabin and hull. But some experience with these two will be useful in running a regular space tug.”

  The Chief said with a trace too much of casualness: “I’m kind of looking forward to testing this.”

  “No,” said Joe doggedly. “I’m responsible. I take the first chance. But we should all be able to handle them. When this is assembled you can stand by with the second one. If the first one works all right, we’ll try the second.”

  The Chief grimaced, but he went back to the assembly of the spidery device.

  Joe got out the gravity-simulator harnesses.
He showed Brent how they worked. Brown hadn’t official instructions to order their use, but Joe put one on himself, set for full Earth-gravity simulation. He couldn’t imitate actual gravity, of course. Only the effect of gravity on one’s muscles. There were springs and elastic webbing pulling one’s shoulders and feet together, so that it was as much effort to stand extended—with one’s legs straight out—as to stand upright on Earth. Joe felt better with a pull on his body.

  Brent was upset when he found that to him more than a tenth of normal gravity was unbearable. But he kept it on at that. If he increased the pull a very little every day, he might be able to return to Earth, in time. Now it would be a very dangerous business indeed. He went off to put the other members of the crew in the same sort of harness.

  After ten hours, a second drone broadcaster went off into space. By that time the articulated red frameworks were assembled. They looked more than ever like farm machinery, save that their bulging tanks made them look insectile, too. They were actually something between small tow-boats and crash-wagons. A man in a space suit could climb into the saddle of one of these creations, plug in the air-line of his suit to the crash-wagon’s tanks, and travel in space by means of the space wagon’s rockets. These weird vehicles had remarkably powerful magnetic grapples. They were equipped with steering rockets as powerful as those of a ship. They had banks of solid-fuel rockets of divers power and length of burning. And they even mounted rocket missiles, small guided rockets which could be used to destroy what could not be recovered. They were intended to handle unmanned rocket shipments of supplies to the Platform. There were reasons why the trick should be economical, if it should happen to work at all.

  When they were ready for testing, they seemed very small in the great space lock. Joe and the Chief very carefully checked an extremely long list of things that had to work right or nothing would work at all. That part of the job wasn’t thrilling, but Joe no longer looked for thrills. He painstakingly did the things that produced results. If a sense of adventure seemed to disappear, the sensations of achievement more than made up for it.