Authors: Mike Jurist
The last equations were down, the spacegraph drawn. Feverishly he superimposed the twisting curve on that of No. 891. If his first approximation was correct, the two asteroids should collide on December 17th, Earth Calendar. It was now December 13th!
He went to work again rapidly, taking successive approximations. Then he was staring blankly at the curves. The sweeping lines approached each other, closer, closer, so close that they practically brushed; then swung away in widening loops to separate sectors of space. Practically brushed each other; but not quite. His first approximation had shown actual contact. The final figures disclosed a distance of three miles at the point of closest approach!
Three miles is not much; but when one deals with two bits of rock, one not more than two hundred feet in diameter, and the other about a mile, and both hurtling along at speeds of several miles per second, three miles becomes a yawning, unbridgeable chasm. There would be no collision!
The vague idea that had been burgeoning in Kerry's head collapsed. Another scheme to do something about Old Fireball's victory over him died a-borning. He was licked again.
He sat there, staring at the figures as though he could by the mere act of concentration shift them just the slightest. Three measly little miles! So near and yet so far. If only there was a way—
He whooped, and the echo in the confined projection chamber startled him. It was a long-shot gamble. There were half a dozen incalculable factors, each of which had to fall neatly into place; but he'd be damned if he wouldn't try it.
Very casually he returned the can of film to the clerk. Even more casually, though his heart was hammering, he asked for the Claims Registration Book.
His finger stopped at Planetoid No. 640. The registered owner was one Jake Henner, and his official address was the Gem Saloon, Planets, Ceres.
"Got what you were looking for?" asked the obliging clerk. Kerry found it hard to keep his face blank. "Wasn't looking for much," he said. "Thanks!"
But out in the street Dale hailed a swift little gyrotaxi. "Gem Saloon!" he snapped. "And never mind the speed limits."
"What a break! What a break!" he exulted to himself. "Imagine if the owner had been old Kenton or Mammoth or some guy who lived on Venus!"
"Here y'are, buddy.'. The gyro-driver came to a halt. "The Gem Saloon in four minutes flat. And I got me a fine, too. Doing a hundred an' twenty on a city street. See up there!"
Kerry looked obediently at the little oblong screen above the dashboard. On it, flashing neatly, was imprinted a summons for violation of the traffic laws. The photoelectric cells at each crossing had clocked the gyro's speed. At it passed the legal limit, the automatic mechanism recorded the offender's license, sent out the impulses that printed the summons in the offender's cab.
"What'll the fine be?"
"Ten bucks."
Kerry fished in his pocket. "Here it is, and the fare and a tip. It was worth it."
"Gee, thanks!"
The Gem Saloon was on the outskirts of Planets. It wasn't one of the higher-class razzle-dazzles. It was just a cheap joint in a cheap neighborhood. Which, strangely enough, pleased Kerry no end.
He went in. A couple of shabby men were drinking rotgut brew. A frowsy-looking bartender with a dirty, slopped-over jacket was lackadaisically leaning an elbow on the bar. Business was not so good.
"Where can I find Jake Henner?" asked Kerry.
The bartender did not even shift his glance. "You're looking at him right now, buddy. An' I don't mind tellin' you meself he ain't much tuh look at."
"Not so bad, Mr. Henner," Kerry said critically.
"Just call me Jake. If it's a drink you want, speak up. If it's money, you're wasting your time."
"I'll take the drink; and maybe I'll
give
you money, Jake."
The man perked up. He slopped some firewater into a dirty glass, set it before Kerry. "Say, mister, don't give me heart failure, speakin' so easy-like about money. They's gonna throw me outa here soon if I don't pay the taxes."
"You registered Planetoid No. 640 in your name, didn't you?"
The eager look died. "Yeah!" he said bitterly. "Coupla years ago me an' a pal got ourselves a grubstake an' went prospectin'.
Didn't find a damn thing. The pal up an' blows hisself tuh bits on that blasted little speck o' nothing. There wasn't anything left tuh bring back tuh bury, so I sorta registered the rock for his sake, me bein' sentimental-like."
"And a very good sentiment, too," approved Kerry. "You wouldn't want to sell that bit of sentimental desert for fifty bucks, cash?"
Jake looked suddenly suspicious. "Whoa there!" he exclaimed. "There ain't been somethin' found there what I don't know about?"
"Don't be silly," Kerry told him severely. "Did you find anything? Did the Mammoth crowd who landed there find anything?"
"No." Jake scratched his head. "Whatcha want it for, then?"
Kerry leaned over the bar; whispered. "I'm a spaceman, see! I get chances to pick up things here and there; and I need a place to cache the stuff until I can get it away safely. Of course, if you don't want to sell No. 6
4
0, that's all right with me. It's convenient, but there's a hundred other asteroids just as convenient."
"Make it two hundred bucks."
"Seventy-five."
"One fifty, mister, and the deal's closed. So help me—I need—"
"One hundred," Kerry told him firmly, "and not a penny more. It's found money for you."
"Gimme!"
"After
you
sign the proper papers, my dear Jake."
Two hours later Kerry was the sole and legal owner of Planetoid 640, with all the rights, appurtenances, hereditaments and easements adhering and accruing thereto. Step Number One!
Now for the next and more difficult step!
He reported to Captain Ball.
The captain's eyes gleamed. "Oh yes, Dale. I had completely forgotten. You've been sneaking extra shore leave. Your contract calls for twelve-hours leave for each week in port. You're already overdrawn, so—"
"Kenton Space Enterprises ought to thank its lucky stars I took the time I did," he interrupted.
The captain stared. "What do you mean by that?"
"Just this. I happened to wander into the Registration Office. Looking at . . . er . . . orbital data is a hobby of mine. Used to be good at mathematics; and I like to keep up my figuring."
"Come to the point."
"In due time, captain. Being a loyal employee of Kenton Space Enterprises, Unlimited, I naturally looked at our Asteroid No. 891 first."
The captain grunted suspiciously.
Kerry paid no heed. "And being properly curious about Mammoth Exploitations, our hated rival, I looked at their futile charts if only to get a laugh."
"Hm-m-m!" said the captain. "What's your bloody schoolwork got to do with me?"
"I'm telling you, captain." Kerry smiled sweetly. "If you, or anyone else, would wish to calculate the orbits of our precious asteroid and of Planetoid No. 640 in the same area, you or he would discover, as I did, that they intersect simultaneously on December 17th. And that intersection, Captain Ball, means
smash
for almost six million dollars’ worth of firm property, not to speak of the lives of the forty-odd men who are mining the stuff."
Captain Ball said hoarsely: "If this is your idea of a practical joke, Dale—"
"I told you; get the company's experts to check me. There are duplicate charts at Megalon. Tell them to check No. 891 against 640. But remember, December 17th is only four days away."
The captain was a man of action. "I intend to," he said grimly. "And Heaven help you if you're trying to make me look like a fool!"
But Kerry Dale obviously was not. The ether surged with spacegrams. A frantic message came from Simeon Kenton. Working at top speed, his experts had taken the charted elements of the two asteroids, as Kerry had suggested, and sure enough, on December 17th they would meet in head-on collision.
"Get every man off No. 891," jittered Kenton. "And do something, do anything, to shift that infernal bit of rock away. Six million dollars!"
The captain called Kerry into conference, as Kerry thought he would. His face was a black thundercloud.
"Easier said than done," he growled. "The
Nancy Lee's
bust in space. All they've got out at No. 891 is a floating shed to house the miners until she comes back. Even if I send them a radio, they couldn't get away."
"The
Flying Meteor,
if it starts fast, could get there with some hours to spare," Kerry pointed out.
"I suppose we could," the captain admitted. "But how about Kenton's other instructions? What does he think I am—God? I suppose he thinks all I've got to do is to slip a tow chain around an asteroid, and haul it out of harm's way. Yet if I don't do something, he'll go ranting and tearing around, and I'll be in the soup."
In his unhappiness the incongruity of his complaining to a lowly cargo wrestler did not strike him.
"I've an idea, captain, which may or may not work," Kerry said quietly.
The captain was ready to grasp at straws. Sometimes Old Fireball expected the impossible from his men, and when they didn't or couldn't deliver, they heard from him plenty. And it
was
six million bucks.
Kerry frowned as if in deep thought. "The total mass of No. 891 is only about eight hundred thousand tons, isn't it?" "Well?"
"A not impossible amount of power, applied tangentially and in the direction of the orbit, could shift it slightly from its course. It wouldn't take much of a shift to avoid a collision."
"True enough," Ball admitted. "But where's the power coming from, and how is it going to be applied?"
"You forget No. 891 is almost solid electromagnetite. If we can set up a powerful counter magnetic field in the immediate vicinity—"
The captain's face cleared. "By Heaven, Dale, you've got something there. Our magnetic tow plates."
"Yes, sir."
"But how much juice would we need? It would be a damn delicate job to give it the right boost."
"Damn delicate, captain," Kerry agreed. "I'll do the figuring, but there are so many complicating factors the whole thing will be a gamble."
"Let it be. We can't lose anything by trying." Captain Ball pressed buttons. Men's faces appeared on the visiscreen, gave way to others. He barked orders. Rush relays of storage batteries on board, additional power units and booster cells. Televise No. 891 to prepare for instant evacuation. Fill all fuel tanks. Stand by for instant take-off!
He turned to Kerry, stroked his chin. He cleared his throat. "By the way, Dale; about your job. I don't think it will be necessary for you to do cargo hustling from now on. Move your duffle bag into the bow cabin. You're acting third officer."
"Thank you, captain," Kerry acknowledged gravely. Not until he was safely out of sight did he permit himself a grin. Everything was working out far better than he had dared hope.
The first hurdle had been the experts back on Earth. They had made the very mistake he had prayed they would; the same one of which he himself had first been guilty. In their hurry, and because he had deftly focused their attention wholly on the two asteroids immediately involved, they had overlooked the concomitant gravitational pulls of the other small bodies in the vicinity. These were charted with any degree of accuracy only on the Mammoth map. Foote had filed a copy on Ceres because it was the law. Duplicate filing on Earth was a courtesy, and Foote had been in no mood for courtesies.
The second hurdle had been to get Captain Ball to follow his suggestions. Kenton's explosive spacegram, with its seeming grant of unlimited authority, had unwittingly helped.
The
Flying Meteor
hurtled the void to No. 891 in three Earth days flat. They found a bewildered crew of men huddled in the captive shelter, anchored to the rushing little segment of purplish metal by a steel chain, and holding its distance by means of a weak repulsive current. All their tools and equipment had been salvaged, and the deep pit in the asteroid showed bare and forlorn.
The transfer of men and materials into the capacious hold of the
Flying Meteor
was a matter of some two hours. Every instant was precious. They could not see the oncoming No. 640. It was still about half a million miles away, and its mile-wide dullness of dark lava could not be picked up in the deep confusion of the Belt. But they knew it was there and that, in less than twenty-four hours, the two bits of space wreckage would crash. Dale had said so; and he had been confirmed by the men back home.
"Have you worked out the amount of power we need, Mr. Dale?" the captain asked anxiously. "And at what specific point it's to be applied?" It was
Mr.
Dale now, as became a newly appointed officer.
"Yes, sir." Kerry thrust a sheet of figures at him. "But remember, sir," he warned, "I can't guarantee they'll do the trick. Space here in the Belt is full of conflicting pulls and repulsions. I had to disregard most of them, and pray that they cancel themselves out."
"I know; but we've got nothing to lose by trying. They're due to crash, anyway. Take your figures below to Mr. Carter, and let him get up the necessary power."
Kerry delivered the message. Meanwhile the ship had moved on No. 891's tail, and jockeyed into the exact position he had calculated. Kerry grinned; then grew a bit worried. He had covered himself against seeming failure; which, in fact, from his point of view, would be complete success. For the data he had laboriously compiled would, if everything went right, give just sufficient of a fillip to No. 891's tail to send it delicately grazing against the still invisible No. 640.
But would everything go right? The slightest bit one way would thrust them wholly untouched past each other; the slightest bit the other way would mean a head-on collision, with total destruction of the two compact little bodies. He didn't want that, either.
The power surged and throbbed in the ship's stout steel plates. The engines roared and the boosters thrummed their song. Long, pencil streamers of flame darted from the rocket tubes, checking, accelerating. They were a bare two miles behind the asteroid, itself no larger than the ship; and at the speeds they were traveling, the slightest deviation might mean a terrific crash.