Spacehounds of IPC | Page 2

a large
and complicated calculating machine and had set to work without a
wasted motion or instant--scaling off upon the model the positions of
the various check-stations and setting up long and involved integrals
and equations upon the calculator.

The older man studied the broad back of the younger, bent over his
computations, and a tender, almost fatherly smile came over his
careworn face as he replied:
"Early? You? Just like you always were--plus fifteen seconds on the
deadline. The final dope is due right now." He plugged the automatic
recorder and speaker into a circuit marked "Observatory," waited until
a tiny light above the plug flashed green, and spoke.
"IPV Arcturus; Breckenridge, Chief Pilot; trip number forty-three
twenty-nine. Ready for final supplementary route and flight data,
Tellus to Mars."
"Meteoric swarms still too numerous for safe travel along the scheduled
route," came promptly from the speaker. "You must stay further away
from the plane of the ecliptic. The ether will be clear for you along
route E2-P6-W41-K3-R19-S7-M14. You will hold a constant
acceleration of 981.27 centimeters between initial and final check
stations. Your take-off will be practically unobstructed, but you will
have to use the utmost caution in landing upon Mars, because in order
to avoid a weightless detour and a loss of thirty-one minutes, you must
pass very close to both the Martian satellites. To do so safely you must
pass the last meteorological station, M14, on schedule time plus or
minus five seconds, at scheduled velocity plus or minus ten meters,
with exactly the given negative acceleration of 981.27 centimeters, and
exactly upon the pilot ray M14 will have set for you."
"All x." Breckenridge studied his triplex chronometer intently, then
unplugged and glanced around the control room, in various parts of
which half a dozen assistants were loafing at their stations.
"Control and power check-out--Hipe!" he barked. "Driving converters
and projectors!"
The first assistant scanned his meters narrowly as he swung a
multi-point switch in a flashing arc. "Converter efficiency 100,
projector reactivity 100; on each of numbers one to forty-five inclusive.
All x."

"Dirigible projectors!"
* * * * *
Two more gleaming switches leaped from point to point. "Converter
efficiency 100, projector reactivity 100, dirigibility 100, on each of
numbers one to thirty-two, inclusive, of upper band; and numbers one
to thirty-two, inclusive, of lower band. All x."
"Gyroscopes!"
"35,000. Drivers in equilibrium at ten degrees plus. All x."
"Upper lights and lookout plates!"
The second assistant was galvanized into activity, and upon a screen
before him there appeared a view as though he were looking directly
upward from the prow of the great vessel. The air above them was full
of aircraft of all shapes and sizes, and occasionally the image of one of
that flying horde flared into violet splendor upon the screen as it was
caught in the mighty, roving beam of one of the twelve ultra-light
projectors under test.
"Upper lights and lookout plates--all x," the second assistant reported,
and other assistants came to attention as the check-out went on.
"Lower lights and lookout plates!"
"All x," was the report, after each of the twelve ultra-lights of the stern
had swung around in its supporting brackets, illuminating every recess
of the dark depths of the bottom well of the berth and throwing the
picture upon another screen in lurid violet relief.
"Lateral and vertical detectors!"
"Laterals XP2710--all x. Verticals AJ4290--all x."
"Receptors!"

"15,270 kilofranks--all x."
"Accumulators!"
"700,000 kilofrank-hours--all x."
Having thus checked and tested every function of his department,
Breckenridge plugged into "Captain," and when the green light went
on:
"Chief pilot check-out--all x," he reported briefly.
"All x," acknowledged the speaker, and the chief pilot unplugged.
Fifteen minutes remained, during which time one department head after
another would report to the captain of the liner that everything in his
charge was ready for the stupendous flight.
"All x, Steve?" Breckenridge turned to the computer. "How do you
check acceleration and power with the observatory?"
"Not so good, old bean," the younger man frowned in thought. "They
figure like astronomers, not navigators. They've made no allowances
for anything, not even the reversal--and I figure four thousands for that
and for minor detours. Then there's check station errors...."
"Check-station errors! Why, they're always right--that's what they're
for!"
"Don't fool yourself--they've got troubles of their own, the same as
anybody else. In fact, from a study of the charts of the last few weeks,
I'm pretty sure that E2 is at least four thousand kilometers this side of
where he thinks he is, that W41 is ten or twelve thousand beyond his
station, and that they've both got a lateral displacement that's simply
fierce. I'm going to check up, and argue with them about it as we pass.
Then there's another thing--they figure to only