The machinists had done a beautiful job. To standard plates they had added the fuel chamber and encased the whole in a shell of steelite. From this shell projected the adjustable pincer clamps which would dig into the solid rock and set immovably, making a rigid base for operations. They were full-sized, liner plates and we estimated three to an asteroid in a tripod formation which would give any orbit I was likely to want.
We tied them in a convenient hollow and went on an inspection trip to see how Murphy had made out with his installations. Listless checked angles and tested foundations.
"Looks O.K., Doc," he commented. "Think you have enough mass?"
I counted. Nineteen.
"Let's make it an even twenty," I decided. "We can tie the rest of the plates on in back and we won't have to load and unload. You go back and get them while Murphy and I fix up a couple more."
Listless hopped back to the ship and beat it for the asteroid belt. I set out with Murphy, two plates and a hand excavator. We picked out spots, bored holes for the pincers, set the points and exploded the charges that drove them home. I stepped back to look it over. It was a nice idea. Space ships to order in any conceivable size. And these little babies were going to nip Dudley right where the hair was short. We made several more trips to the stock pile and stopped once for a rest and sleep before the ship came back.
Murphy called my attention to it.
"He's coming in," he said over the space phone. I turned to look. The Beerbuster was starting her spin. Suddenly Murphy grabbed me.
"Out of the way," he yelled. "That slipstick expert miscalculated his stop."
I stood and stared at the load of plates aimed straight at my head. Outhouse threw me one way and jumped the other. But the bundle came to a stop about twenty-five feet over us.