Space Tug | Page 5

three crew-members were ready--Haney and Chief Bender and Mike Scandia.
They were especially entitled to be the crew of this first supply ship. When the Platform
was being built, its pilot-gyros had been built by a precision tool firm owned by Joe's
father. He'd gone by plane with the infinitely precise apparatus to Bootstrap, to deliver
and install it in the Platform. And the plane was sabotaged, and the gyros were ruined.
They'd consumed four months in the building, and four months more for balancing with
absolute no-tolerance accuracy. The Platform couldn't wait so long for duplicates. So Joe
had improvised a method of repair. And with Haney to devise special machine-tool
setups and the Chief to use fanatically fine workmanship, and Mike and Joe aiding
according to their gifts, they'd rebuilt the apparatus in an impossibly short time. The
original notion was Joe's, but he couldn't have done the job without the others.
And there had been other, incidental triumphs by the team of four. They were not the
only ones who worked feverishly for the glory of having helped to build the Earth's first
artificial moon, but they had accomplished more than most. Joe had even been appointed
to be an alternate member of the Platform's crew. But the man he was to have substituted
for recovered from an illness, and Joe was left behind at the Platform's launching. But all
of them had rated some reward, and it was to serve in the small ships that would supply
the man-made satellite.
Now they were ready to begin. The Chief grinned exuberantly as Joe ducked through the
bars of the launching cage and approached the ship. He was a Mohawk Indian--one of
that tribe which for two generations had supplied steel workers to every bridge and dam
and skyscraper job on the continent. He was brown and bulky and explosive. Haney
looked tense and strained. He was tall and lean and spare, and a good man in any sort of
trouble. Mike blazed excitement. Mike was forty-one inches high and he was full-grown.
He had worked on the Platform, bucking rivets and making welds and inspections in
places too small for a normal-sized man to reach. He frantically resented any concessions
to his size and he was as good a man as any. He simply was the small, economy size.
"Hiya, Joe," boomed the Chief. "All set? Had breakfast?"
Joe nodded. He began to ask anxious questions. About steering-rocket fuel and the
launching cage release and the take-off rockets and the reduction valve from the air

tanks--he'd thought of that on the way over--and the short wave and loran and radar.
Haney nodded to some questions. Mike said briskly, "I checked" to others.
The Chief grunted amiably, "Look, Joe! We checked everything last night. We checked it
again this morning. I even caught Mike polishing the ejection seats, because there wasn't
anything else to make sure of!"
Joe managed a smile. The ejection seats were assuredly the most unlikely of all devices to
be useful today. They were supposedly life-saving devices. If the ship came a cropper on
take-off, the four of them were supposed to use ejection-seats like those supplied to jet
pilots. They would be thrown clear of the ship and ribbon-parachutes might open and
might let them land alive. But it wasn't likely. Joe had objected to their presence. If a
feather dropped to Earth from a height of 600 miles, it would be falling so fast when it hit
the atmosphere that it would heat up and burn to ashes from pure air-friction. It wasn't
likely that they could get out of the ship if anything went wrong.
Somebody marched stiffly toward the four of them. Joe's expression grew rueful. The
Space Project was neither Army nor Navy nor Air Corps, but something that so far was
its own individual self. But the man marching toward Joe was Lieutenant Commander
Brown, strictly Navy, assigned to the Shed as an observer. And there were some times
when he baffled Joe. Like now.
He halted, and looked as if he expected Joe to salute. Joe didn't.
Lieutenant Commander Brown said, formally: "I would like to offer my best wishes for
your trip, Mr. Kenmore."
"Thanks," said Joe.
Brown smiled distantly. "You understand, of course, that I consider navigation essentially
a naval function, and it does seem to me that any ship, including a spaceship, should be
manned by naval personnel. But I assuredly wish you good fortune."
"Thanks," said Joe again.
Brown shook hands, then stalked off.
Haney rumbled in his throat. "How come, Joe, he doesn't wish all of us good luck?"
"He does," said Joe. "But his mind's in uniform too. He's been trained that way. I'd like to
make a bet that we have