Space Tug | Page 2

the dawn sky. Today was the day he'd be leaving on a rather important journey. He
hoped that Haney and the Chief and Mike weren't nervous. He also hoped that nobody
had gotten at the fuel for the pushpots, and that the slide-rule crew that had calculated
everything hadn't made any mistakes. He was also bothered about the steering-rocket fuel,
and he was uncomfortable about the business of releasing the spaceship from the
launching cage. There was, too, cause for worry in the take-off rockets--if the tube linings
had shrunk there would be some rather gruesome consequences--and there could always
be last-minute orders from Washington to delay or even cancel everything.
In short, his mind was full of strictly practical details. He didn't have time to feel noble
aspirations or sensations of high destiny. He had a very tricky and exacting job ahead of
him.

The sky was growing lighter outside. Stars faded in a paling blue and the desert showed
faint colorings. He tied his necktie. A deep-toned keening set up off to the southward,
over the sere and dreary landscape. It was a faraway noise, something like the lament of a
mountain-sized calf bleating for its mother. Joe took a deep breath. He looked, but saw
nothing. The noise, though, told him that there'd been no cancellation of orders so far. He
mentally uncrossed one pair of fingers. He couldn't possibly cross fingers against all
foreseeable disasters. There weren't enough fingers--or toes either. But it was good that
so far the schedule held.
He went downstairs. Major Holt was pacing up and down the living room of his quarters.
Electric lights burned, but already the windows were brightening. Joe straightened up and
tried to look casual. Strictly speaking, Major Holt was a family friend who happened also
to be security officer here, in charge of protecting what went on in the giant construction
Shed. He'd had a sufficiently difficult time of it in the past, and the difficulties might
keep on in the future. He was also the ranking officer here and consequently the
immediate boss of Joe's enterprise. Today's affair was still highly precarious. The whole
thing was controversial and uncertain and might spoil the career of somebody with stars
on his collar if it should fail. So nobody in the high brass wanted the responsibility. If
everything went well, somebody suitable would take the credit and the bows. Meanwhile
Major Holt was boss by default.
He looked sharply at Joe. "Morning."
"Good morning, sir," said Joe. Major Holt's daughter Sally had a sort of understanding
with Joe, but the major hadn't the knack of cordiality, and nobody felt too much at ease
with him. Besides, Joe was wearing a uniform for the first time this morning. There were
only eight such uniforms in the world, so far. It was black whipcord, with an Eisenhower
jacket, narrow silver braid on the collar and cuffs, and a silver rocket for a badge where a
plane pilot wears his wings. It was strictly practical. Against accidental catchings in
machinery, the trousers were narrow and tucked into ten-inch soft leather boots, and the
wide leather belt had flat loops for the attachment of special equipment. Its width was a
brace against the strains of acceleration. Sally had had much to do with its design.
But it hadn't yet been decided by the Pentagon whether the Space Exploration Project
would be taken over by the Army or the Navy or the Air Corps, so Joe wore no insignia
of rank. Technically he was still a civilian.
The deep-toned noise to the south had become a howl, sweeping closer and trailed by
other howlings.
"The pushpots are on the way over, as you can hear," said the major detachedly, in the
curious light of daybreak and electric bulbs together. "Your crew is up and about. So far
there seems to be no hitch. You're feeling all right for the attempt today?"
"If you want the truth, sir, I'd feel better with about ten years' practical experience behind
me. But my gang and myself--we've had all the training we can get without an actual
take-off. We're the best-trained crew to try it. I think we'll manage."

"I see," said the major. "You'll do your best."
"We may have to do better than that," admitted Joe wrily.
"True enough. You may." The major paused. "You're well aware that there
are--ah--people who do not altogether like the idea of the United States possessing an
artificial satellite of Earth."
"I ought to know it," admitted Joe.
The Earth's second, man-constructed moon--out in space for just six weeks now--didn't
seem nowadays like the bitterly contested achievement it actually was. From Earth it was
merely a tiny speck of light in the sky, identifiable for what it was only because