Von Hartwick smiled grimly. “Think you can run away, eh? That ship will never take you home. Or haven’t you found that out yet?”
“You still don’t understand. Keep quiet and let me explain. We are going to take several of the bombs such as you used on the Galileo and blow up the room containing your guided missiles. It’s a shame, for I see it’s one of the rooms built by the original inhabitants. Then we are going to blow up the Wotan.”
“The Wotan? Why?” Von Hartwick was suddenly very alert.
“To make sure it never flies back to earth. We can’t operate it; I must make sure that no one else does. For then we intend to blow up the Thor.”
“The Thor? You can’t blow up the Thor!”
“Oh, yes, we can—the same way you blew up the Galileo. But I can’t chance the possibility of survivors grabbing the Wotan—so she must go first. And that has a strong bearing on why you must die at once. After we blast the Wotan we are going back to our own base—you didn’t know about that, did you?—but it is only one room. No place for prisoners. I had intended, as I said, to keep you in the jeep rocket, but the need to blast the Thor changes that. We’ll have to keep a pilot in it all times, until the Thor lands. And that leaves no place for you. Sorry,” he finished, and smiled.
“Anything wrong with it?” he added.
Von Hartwick was beginning to show the strain. “You may succeed—”
“Oh, we will!”
“But if you do, you are still dead men. A quick death for me, but a long and slow and lingering death for you. If you blast the Thor, you lose your own last chance. Think of it,” he went on, “starving or suffocating or dying with cold. I’ll make a pact with you. Turn me loose now and I’ll give you my parole. When the Thor arrives, I’ll intercede with the captain on your behalf. I’ll—”
Cargraves cut him off with a gesture. “The word of a Nazi! You wouldn’t intercede for your own grandmother! You haven’t gotten it through your thick head yet that we hold all the aces. After we kill you and take care of your friends, we shall sit tidy and cozy and warm, with plenty of food and air, until we are picked up. We won’t even be lonesome; we were just finishing our earth sender when you picked up one of our local signals. We’ll—”
“You lie!” shouted von Hartwick. “No one will pick you up. Yours was the only ship. I know, I know. We had full reports.”
“Was the only ship.” Cargraves smiled sweetly. “But under a quaint old democratic law which you wouldn’t understand, the plans and drawings and notes for my ship were being studied eagerly the minute we took off. We’ll be able to take our pick of ships before long. I hate to disappoint you but we are going to live. I am afraid I must disappoint you on another score. Your death will not be as clean and pleasant as you had hoped.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I am not going to get this ship all bloodied up again by shooting you. I’m going to—”
“Wait. A dying man is entitled to a last request. Leave me in the Wotan. Let me die with my ship!”
Cargraves laughed full in his face. “Lovely, von Nitwit. Perfectly lovely. And have you take off in her. Not likely!”
“I am no pilot—believe me!”
“Oh, I do believe. I would not think of doubting a dying man’s last words. But I won’t risk a mistake. Ross!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Take this thing and throw it out on the face of the moon.”
“Dee-lighted!”
“And that’s all.” Cargraves had been squatting down; he got up and brushed the crumbs from his hands. “I shan’t even have you untied so that you can die in a comfortable position. You are too handy at grabbing guns. You’ll just have to flop around as you are. It probably won’t take long,” he went on conversationally. “They say it’s about like drowning. In seven or eight minutes you won’t know a thing. Unless your heart ruptures through your lungs and finishes you a little sooner.”
“Swine!”
“Captain Swine, to you.”
Ross was busily zipping his suit into place. “Okay, Doc?”
“Go ahead. No, on second thought,” he added, “I’ll do this job myself. I might be criticized for letting a boy touch it. My suit, Morrie.”
He whistled as they helped him dress. He was still whistling as he picked up von Hartwick like a satchel, by the line which bound his ankles to his wrists, and walked briskly to the lock. He chucked his bundle in ahead of him, stepped in, waved to the boys, said, “Back soon!” and clamped the door.
As the air started whistling out von Hartwick began to gasp. Cargraves smiled at him, and said, “Drafty, isn’t it?” He shouted to make himself heard through the helmet.
Von Hartwick’s mouth worked.
“Did you say something?”
The Nazi opened his mouth again, gasped, choked, and sprayed foam out on his chest. “You’ll have to talk louder,” Cargraves shouted. “I can’t hear you.” The air whistled away.
“I’m a pilot!”
“What?”
“I’m a pilot! I’ll teach you—”
Cargraves reached up and closed the exhaust valve. “I can’t hear with all that racket. What were you saying?”
“I’m a pilot!” gasped von Hartwick.
“Yes? Well, what about it?”
“Air. Give me air—”
“Shucks,” said Cargraves. “You’ve got plenty of air. I can still hear you talking. Must be four or five pounds in here.”
“Give me air. I’ll tell you how it works.”
“You’ll tell me first,” Cargraves stated. He reached for the exhaust valve again.
“Wait! There is a little plug, in the back of the instrument—” He paused and gasped heavily. “The instrument panel. Starboard side. It’s a safety switch. You wouldn’t notice it; it looks just like a mounting stud. You push it in.” He stopped to wheeze again.
“I think you’d better come show me,” Cargraves said judicially. “If you aren’t lying again, you’ve given me an out to take you back to earth for your appeal. Not that you deserve it.”
He reached over and yanked on the spill valve; the air rushed back into the lock.
Ten minutes later Cargraves was seated in the left-hand pilot’s chair, with his safety belt in place. Von Hartwick was in the right-hand chair. Cargraves held a pistol in his left hand and cradled it over the crook of his right arm, so that it would remain pointed at von Hartwick, even under drive. He called out,
“Morrie! Everybody ready?”
“Ready, Captain,” came faintly from the rear of the ship. The boys had been forced to use the acceleration bunks in the passenger compartment. They resented it, especially Morrie, but there was no help for it. The control room could carry just two people under acceleration.
“Okay! Here we go!” He turned again to von Hartwick. “Twist her tail, Swine—Colonel Swine, I mean.”
Von Hartwick glared at him. “I don’t believe,” he said slowly, “that you ever intended to go through with it.”
Cargraves grinned and rubbed the chair arm. “Want to go back and see?” he inquired.
Von Hartwick swiveled his head around to the front. “Achtung!” he shouted. “Prepare for acceleration! Ready—” Without waiting for a reply he blasted off.
The ship had power to spare with the light load; Cargraves had him hold it at two g’s for five minutes and then go free. By that time, having accelerated at nearly 64 feet per second for each second of the five minutes, even with due allowance for loss of one-sixth g to the pull of the moon at the start, they were making approximately 12,000 miles per hour.
They would have breezed past earth in twenty hours had it not been necessary to slow down in order to land. Cargraves planned to do it in a little less than twenty-four hours.
Once in free fall, the boys came forward and Cargraves required of von Hartwick a detailed lecture on the operation of the craft. When he was satisfied, he said, “Okay. Ross, you and Art take the prisoner aft and las
h him to one of the bunks. Then strap yourselves down. Morrie and I are going to practice.”
Von Hartwick started to protest. Cargraves cut him short. “Stow it! You haven’t been granted any pardon; we’ve simply been picking your brains. You are a common criminal, going back to appeal your case.”
They felt out the ship for the next several hours, with time out only to eat. The result of the practice on the course and speed were null; careful check was kept by instrument to see that a drive in one direction was offset by the same amount of drive in the opposite direction. Then they slept.
They needed sleep. By the time they got it they had been awake and active at an unrelenting pace for one full earth-day.
When they woke Cargraves called Art. “Think you could raise earth on this Nazi gear, kid?”
“I’ll try. What do you want me to say and who do you want to talk to?”
Cargraves considered. Earth shone gibbous, more than half full, ahead. The Nazi base was not in line-of-sight. That suited him. “Better make it Melbourne, Australia,” he decided, “and tell them this—”
Art nodded. A few minutes later, having gotten the hang of the strange set, he was saying endlessly: “Space Ship City of Detroit calling UN police patrol, Melbourne; Space Ship City of Detroit calling UN police patrol, Melbourne—”
He had been doing this for twenty-five minutes when a querulous voice answered: “Pax, Melbourne; Pax, Melbourne—calling Space Ship City of Detroit. Come in, City of Detroit.”
Art pushed up one phone and looked helpless. “You better talk to ’em, Uncle.”
“Go ahead. You tell them what I told you. It’s your show.”
Art shut up and did so.
Morrie let her down carefully and eased her over into a tight circular orbit just outside the atmosphere. Their speed was still nearly five miles per second; they circled the globe in ninety minutes. From that orbit he killed her speed slowly and dipped down cautiously until the stub wings of the City of Detroit né Wotan, began to bite the tenuous stratosphere in a blood-chilling thin scream.
Out into space again they went and then back in, each time deeper and each time slower. On the second of the braking orbits they heard the broadcast report of the UN patrol raid on the Nazi nest and of the capture of the Thor. On the next lap two chains bid competitively for an exclusive broadcast from space. On the third there was dickering for television rights at the field. On the fourth they received official instructions to attempt to land at the District-of-Columbia Rocket Port.
“Want me to take her down?” Morrie yelled above the scream of the skin friction.
“Go right ahead,” Cargraves assured him. “I’m an old man. I want a chauffeur.”
Morrie nodded and began his approach. They were somewhere over Kansas.
The ground of the rocket port felt strange and solid under the ship. Eleven days—only eleven days?—away from the earth’s massive pull had given them new habits. Cargraves found that he staggered a little in trying to walk. He opened the inner door of the lock and waited for the boys to get beside him. Latching the outer door and broke the inner door open, he stepped to the outer door and broke the seal.
As he swung it open, a solid wall of sound beat him in the face, an endless mass of eager eyes looked up at him. Flash guns flickered like heat lightning. He turned back to Ross. “Oh, my gosh!” he said. “This is awful! Say—don’t you guys want to take the bows?”
Robert A. Heinlein, Rocket Ship Galileo
(Series: # )
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