Project Orion
There was an air of anticipation everywhere at the Scarlet Lake rocket base. Rick, who was sensitive to such things, felt it keenly. He also recognized that under the anticipation, like thick, stagnant water under the bright surface of a pond, there was fear.
The anticipation was spoken; the fear was not.
By mutual agreement, Rick and Scotty parted soon after their return to the base. Each went back to his own unit, more on guard then ever before for the slightest hint of irregularity in personnel or equipment.
The electronics group of Pegasus was just about at a standstill. Dick Earle and Frank Miller had gone to the firing area, to lend the Orion group a hand. Dr. Bond remained, along with Kassick and Sherman. The three were amusing themselves with a game of three-handed bridge, while the marmoset occasionally made things lively by stealing cards.
Rick watched for a few minutes, then wandered into the empty Orion shed, abandoned now that its crew and rocket had moved to the firing pad and blockhouse. As he stood looking at the complex test equipment a sedan pulled up and Gee-Gee Gould got out. The electronics chief waved at him and trotted by into the project office. He returned in a moment with a portable tube and circuit tester under his arm and paused to ask, "What's up, boy-oh?"
Rick answered briefly, "No transistors, no work."
"Bored?"
"Not exactly, sir. But I wish I could do something useful instead of just hanging around."
Gee-Gee stroked his magnificent mustache. "I'm with you," he said finally. "Jump in."
Rick needed no further invitation. He took the tester from the scientist and climbed into the sedan, holding the gadget on his lap. "Where are we going?" he asked.
"Pad. Work to do, and you can help. Do a good job with me and I'll give you a special reward. Check?"
"Check," Rick agreed, grinning. "What's the reward?"
"Watch Orion from the blockhouse with me. Good?"
"Plenty good," Rick said, pleased. "What's the work?"
Gee-Gee drove the way he talked, at high speed and with a flourish. Rick held his breath as the sedan skidded around a gasoline truck, then leveled off. Gee-Gee gave him a long glance and almost went off the road in consequence.
"You're fairly new, Rick. But you know about this Earthman?"
"I've heard plenty of rumors," Rick agreed, "but I can't say I know many facts about him. He's a big, noctilucent mystery to me." He thought, "Now he's got me doing it!"
"I like that," Gee-Gee said appreciatively. "High, rare, and mysterious. Like noctilucent clouds high above the cirrus belt. I can use it."
Rick chuckled. "You were talking about the Earthman," he prompted.
"Yes. You weren't here for the first two shoots, so you are not this Earthman. And I'm not. No one knows this but me, on account of everyone suspects everyone. So far, only the Earthman knows who he is. But I'm telling you, it's not me. You don't have to believe this, of course, but, young Brant, I'm going to check every electronic circuit in Orion myself. And you're not only going to help me, you're going to check what I check. Roger?"
"Roger," Rick replied grimly. "How long will it take?"
"All night. We'll live on sandwiches and coffee and get no sleep. But when we're through, we'll both be satisfied that all electronics in Orion are correct and functioning."
"But hasn't the rocket been checked already?" Rick asked.
"Twice. Every circuit in it. The critical circuits have been checked a dozen times. But is ole Gee-Gee satisfied? Negative, young Brant. Gee-Gee is not going to be satisfied until he personally rechecks and locks all access doors and ports himself."
Rick sat back in the seat, smiling to himself. He had no doubt that Dr. Gerald Gould meant every word of it. If Orion failed tomorrow, it would not be the fault of the electronics department.
The sedan pulled up at the pad and Rick got out, staring at the great rocket. Myriad cables dripped from various parts of it, and he thought of Gulliver tied down by the threads of the Lilliputians. There was something magnificent about the clean, towering shape that stirred his imagination. In the jargon of the rocketeer the great missiles were called "beasts" or "birds." The former was because they sometimes acted "beastly." The latter was a tribute to their beautiful flight when they ran true.
Rick thought, "How could anyone sabotage a thing like that?"
Gee-Gee brought him back to earth. "Ever climb a gantry?"
"No, sir."
"Well, start flying, young Brant. We go to the top and work down."
Rick went. He was too excited to be afraid. The first stage was by elevator. Then he and Gee-Gee climbed thin steel rungs to the very tip of the great rocket. Not until he reached the shaky, wind-blown, postage-stamp-size platform at the top did he take time to look down.
The thin steel web was no barrier to vision. He was on top of the world, at the doorstep to space, looking down on fantastic activity below. The rocket curved sweetly away below him, down to the sharp lines of the great stabilizer fins. He noted the breakaway zone where the first stage and second stage were joined. He could see, as one perched on a cloud, the tiny, busy forms of men below.
For an instant, as the nose access port yawned before him, Rick had a vision of himself in pressure suit and plastic helmet, mounting the rocket as a pilot mans his plane, anticipating the signal for blast-off.
Gee-Gee brought him back to earth with a prosaic, "Let's get at it, boy-oh."
It was the beginning. The picturesque but highly competent and efficient electronics chief hadn't exaggerated. The fabulous world of rocketry narrowed to a maze of wiring, circuit after circuit, checking, testing, and calling for test signals from the blockhouse. Rick checked and rechecked, following closely on Gee-Gee's heels. He missed nothing, took nothing for granted. Once he snapped, "Wait a minute! You didn't check that circuit properly. Check for polarization as well as contact."
Gee-Gee looked at him in astonishment, then slowly grinned. He thrust out a grimy hand. "You're my boy, young Brant. Who taught you about polarization?"
Rick was about to say, truthfully, "My father." But he caught himself in time. "A boss I had at Spindrift."
"He taught you well, and you're right. I did goof on that one. I'll check, and you recheck."
They went at it again, inch by inch through the incredible maze of wiring in the rocket's innards. By very accurate analogy, they were probing the rocket's brains. The circuits, like nerves, carried messages to and from the central rocket control. One would signal "Rocket starting to yaw," and another would reply to the servomotors that activated the gimbal-mounted motor, "Compensate! Two degrees correction azimuth 350!" and the great rocket would steady on course again. There was a circuit to carry the heartbeats of the monkey caged in the nose cone, and another to carry his skin temperature, and dozens more.
Rick didn't even notice when it grew dark. Sometime during the night someone thrust ham sandwiches and a cup of steaming coffee into his hands and he ate and drank without taking his eyes from Gee-Gee.
Then, what seemed only minutes later, someone yelled, "Zero minus three hours!"
Gee-Gee looked up. He glared at Rick from red-rimmed eyes. "Quick! What's left to check?"
Rick stared at smudged, much-handled circuit diagrams through eyes that refused to focus sharply. "Only the control circuit for the pumps."
They were low on the crane now, working at the last access port. These were the electronic nerves of the great pumps that would force fuel into the rocket motor. Gee-Gee checked them, spoke into a walkie-talkie he had carried through the night, and Dick Earle's voice came back from the blockhouse. "The board is green."
Rick took over and checked again. And once more Earle's voice sounded, harsh and definite. "The board is green."
Gee-Gee slammed the access port door and locked the patented fasteners with a few turns of his screw driver. "We're done," he said flatly. "Come on down."
Rick followed, jumping to the ground from the lowest platform. He looked around, dazed. The sky was pink in the east. It was dawn. Where had the night gone? He stared amazed at grotesque figures that waited, silent, patient, like beings from another world. Then he realized it was the fueling crew dressed in protective clothing, swathed like strange cocoons in plastic that would keep their vulnerable human skins from the harm of corrosive liquid and fumes.
Gee-Gee led him to the blockhouse, and the walk across the barren plain cleared the mists from Rick's head. He knew, as clearly and finally as anyone can ever know anything, that the electronic circuits were all in order and functioning.
The massive door of the blockhouse was open. Inside were two dozen men, each with his own place and his own job. Rick knew some of them by sight, but he knew few names. This was the Orion crew. He looked at them with respect. They had made the great rocket on which he had worked all night. They had created it from sketches on paper, followed it through all the stages of construction until now it was ready.
A loud-speaker crackled, then boomed, "The time is now zero minus ninety minutes."
They were the fastest ninety minutes Rick had ever spent. He was enthralled by the activity in the blockhouse, and, careful to keep out of the way, he walked from station to station. Now and then he looked through the thick glass ports, and he saw the green mist of boron hydride as fuel throbbed slowly into the rocket's tanks.
A thin, bald scientist in a scarlet sports shirt picked up a microphone and spoke into it. "Tracking stations, report your readiness. Stand by. Lathrop Wells, report."
A loud-speaker over his head replied instantly. "Lathrop Wells ready and tracking."
Tonopah, Indian Springs, Mercury, Death Valley Junction, Shorty's Well, Chloride Cliff, Jubilee Pass: All ready and tracking. Then:
"Careless Mesa."
Big Mac's voice boomed forth. "Careless Mesa ready and tracking."
The time: "Zero minus thirty minutes!"
One by one red lights on the main board winked out and green lights came on in their places, showing circuits and controls in operation. Only a few red lights remained now. Rick looked through the glass ports and saw the gantry crane being wheeled away. Jeeps, trucks, and private cars were moving out of the area, haste evident in their spinning wheels and hunched drivers. The movement was like a scurry of ants. Rick watched, taking in everything. He didn't even notice when the massive door was swung shut, closing against its airtight cushion with a sibilant hiss.
"Zero minus five minutes."
At last the frenzied activity ceased, and the rocket stood alone, clean, beautiful, and awesome, only the instrument cable tying it to earth.
Rick couldn't tear his eyes from the rocket, even to watch the last of the red lights flick out, the green glow showing readiness.
Then, zero minus five ... four ... three ... two ... one ...
FIRE!
A steady hand threw the final switch.
Green flame stabbed from Orion's tail, grew to white intensity. The instrument cable dropped from the rocket's nose and writhed to the ground. Even through the thick walls of the blockhouse Rick heard the mighty rocket's voice, an ear-shattering roar of triumph that sent lancing pain through his head. The rocket shuddered, eager to be away. Thrust built up, and up, and up, and the exhaust light grew until it was like staring into the heart of a green sun. Then the great voice faltered, the shuddering increased.
A yell of pure horror burst from Rick's throat. High on the rocket's side, metal slowly peeled back like obscene steel lips opening, and green fire gushed forth. The shuddering ceased, and he knew the rocket was dead. The gash opened wider ... wider ...
The blockhouse door swung open and men poured out—silent, horrified men, helpless to do anything but watch, oblivious to the danger. Rick went out with them.
The desert was alive with sound now, with the roaring torch of rocket propellant and the scream of sirens. Speeding down from the base camp came the fire engines, to save what could be saved, to help still the flames so the Orion crew might find out what had gone wrong.
Behind the fire engines were jeeps, trucks, and cars, loaded with grim men who carried picks, shovels, anything to help still the holocaust.
Scotty arrived right behind the fire engines and ran to where Rick stood, still stunned by the shocking turn of events.
"What happened to it?" Scotty asked hoarsely.
Rick shook his head. He couldn't talk.
The firemen were already at work. Crews from the trucks, protected by asbestos and plastic, carried hoses to the very edge of the roaring propellant and began to smother it with mounds of foam. The men who had followed with shovels and picks were also at work, hastily digging a trench to prevent the spread of the fiery liquid.
Someone yelled, then another yelled. Rick looked up in time to see the rocket split wide open and most of the remaining tons of propellant gush out. The firemen saw it, too, saw that they would be engulfed. They turned and ran.
Horrified, Rick saw a fireman, clumsy in his protective suit, trip and fall before the oncoming flood of flaming boron hydride.
Scotty moved, instinctively, his finely trained body responding with perfect co-ordination. Straight toward the oncoming flood he ran, into the edge of the flames, leaping the rapidly widening trench. Rick ran, too, but Scotty's fast reaction had carried his pal beyond reach. He saw the husky ex-marine stoop into the flames, pick up the fallen fireman, and literally throw him across the trench to safety.
Then Rick was at his friend's side, slapping at the burning places on his clothes, rushing him away from the spreading propellant. But Scotty wasn't through. He helped the fireman to his feet and pulled at the protective suit. Rick saw instantly what had happened. The suit had been torn in the fall, and some propellant had gotten in through the rents. The fireman was burning under the protective cover!
Other hands came to help and they got the man out of his cover, out of his burning clothes. Then the first-aid squad moved in.
Not until the fireman had been cared for did Scotty say, almost apologetically, "Any of that stuff left? I've got a couple of burns."
Then Rick noticed for the first time that his own hands were scorched and in need of the soothing unguent. By the time he and Scotty were smeared with the ointment, the fire was out.
The boys watched as water was sprayed over the white-hot wreckage until at last the safety officer pronounced the torn remnants cool enough for inspection. Then John Gordon and the senior staff moved in.
It was past noon before they emerged from their inch-by-inch examination of the rocket, but no one left to eat, to change clothes, or even to sit down. No one thought of it.
John Gordon motioned to Dr. Albert Hiller, the Orion project officer. Hiller nodded. He spoke quietly, but not one of the hundreds watching missed a single word.
"Apparently a fuel-pump bearing froze at the critical moment. With an unstable fuel like boron hydride, that made the difference. Internal pressure was too much for the shell to take."
The engineer paused, and the tense, waiting silence became almost too much to bear. Hiller knew what the men were waiting for.
"We found no pictures," he said. "We'll continue the examination in the laboratory, of course. But as of this moment we cannot say whether it was the kind of accident that rocketeers always have to expect, or whether someone tampered with the pump. By someone, I mean—the Earthman."