MARTYR'S FLIGHT

By Hank Searls

Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy

December 1955

 

Some of the anguish and bitterness and fear left Walter Stanton's heart as he gazed at the vista from the open landing-lock. It had been almost three months since the core of Space Station One had nudged itself into its silent orbit, but this, the only remaining view unhindered by the bulbous fuel storage tanks, still fascinated him. Now, as the nose of Cargo One crept backward into the blinding sunlight, he pulled himself further along the catwalk. He waved with his free hand at the pilot, Major Torrance, although he knew the Major could hardly be watching during the delicate maneuver. Then, while the massive hatch was still gaping, he looked earthward.

 

Twenty-five thousand miles away, half of the western hemisphere shone through the murky earth-haze, the other half still in darkness. Through force of habit he oriented himself by looking at the center of the half-darkened sphere; there lay the Galapagos Islands. Then he traced the outline of the West Coast to Baja California and thence to where he knew lay Sandia Base, New Mexico. He glanced at his watch; 7:00 A.M. Mountain Standard Time; Lynne would be making breakfast for Karen, soon to leave for school. He felt a stab of loneliness and a tug of envy for the men in Cargo II. Three skidding entries into the atmosphere; three swinging returns to space, and they would have decelerated enough to spiral to the incredible runway at Sandia. In twelve hours they would be home with their wives.

 

He watched as Torrance, drifting a hundred yards away, eased the massive nose to a westerly direction and then, with a tiny burst of power, slowed his relative speed enough to fall rapidly out of Space One's orbit. He sighed and swung himself around.

 

Colonel Mel Cramer was hanging on beside him, grotesquely familiar in the flight gear he used as a Topside Suit. Walter Stanton's earphones crackled.

 

"Walt, I'm going to take the Mistress out for a while and practice some marriages, if it's OK with you."

 

Walter Stanton glanced at the lethal fighter ship nested across the landing-lock and essayed their old joke again, but his heart wasn't in it. "What would Marge say, Mel?"

 

Mel Cramer laughed. "She gave up to Mel's Mistress a year ago. OK to go?"

 

Walter Stanton thought of the letter in his pocket. "No, Mel, I think not." Then suddenly: "Is the Mistress armed ... all ready to go?"

 

Mel sounded hurt. "Of course, Walt. She's always ready.... Why?"

 

Stanton pulled himself to the hatch in the hub. "Meet me in Control, Mel. I want to talk to you."

 

Walter Stanton belted himself to his desk chair and pulled out the letter from De La Rue, reading it again. He felt a surge of nostalgia at the Old Man's quaint English; the Secretary-General's white-hot internationalism had never impelled him to improve his languages. But there was nothing quaint about the content of the letter....

 

Mel Cramer shuffled in with the strange gait that they had all developed within days of arriving in space. Automatically he snapped his safety belt to a grommet on Mel's desk, then sat on the top.

 

"What's on your mind, Walt?"

 

"This...." Walter Stanton handed him the letter. "Torrance brought it. I guess De La Rue didn't have enough to go on to send a dispatch, so he wrote the letter."

 

Mel Cramer read the letter swiftly, smiling first at the whimsical phraseology and then suddenly frowning. He whistled.

 

"Sounds bad, Walter, sounds bad...."

 

"Torrance said Sandia Base is on a 24 hour alert."

 

"God," Mel said desperately. "I wish Marge would leave that place. Why can't she move to the country somewhere?"

 

"She feels like Lynne, probably.... That if we're here, the least she can do is stay as close as possible...."

 

"As close as possible," Mel said bitterly. He lit a cigarette. "Walt, have you heard anything about my relief?"

 

Walter Stanton felt a stab of anger at his friend. Professionally ambitious, Mel had fought for his job as Platform Fighter Pilot; now, with the decline of Space One in the eyes of the military, he probably had his eyes on other fields. Carefully controlling his voice, he said: "No, Mel. Nothing's come in. Why?"

 

Mel Cramer shrugged. "I don't know.... They said three months, that's all. And it's been nearly fourteen weeks...." He laughed. "Kind of feel like the world's passing me by. Joke, Walter."

 

Walter Stanton took back the letter and folded it carefully. Then, on second thought, he lit a match and burned it.

 

"I asked you in for advice, Mel," he said carefully, watching the flickering flame.

 

"You bet. Shoot."

 

"If it starts, what are the wheels going to do?"

 

"The brass?" Mel laughed. "You asking me? I'm just a light colonel."

 

"You're the senior military man aboard. All I want is your opinion."

 

Mel's brow furrowed. For a long moment he was silent, and Walter Stanton heard the ceaseless whine of the ventilators. Space Two, when and if it's built, he thought irrationally, had better have ventilators that don't cry like a cat in heat.

 

"Well, Mel?"

 

"I think," Mel Cramer said thoughtfully, "they'll suggest that we evacuate."

 

Walter Stanton slapped his hand on the desk and swung in his chair. "I knew it! Can't they see? Can't they see at all?"

 

"Walter," Mel said quietly. "Let's face it. From a military standpoint, Space One is a failure."

 

"The Russians don't seem to think so. Even with the agreement in their pocket, they're still screaming."

 

Mel shook his head doggedly. "Militarily, it's a failure."

 

"It's not a failure," Mel barked. He unsnapped his belt, shuffled to the center of the compartment, and kicked open the cover of a port in the rim-deck. "Look at that! Look at those stars, Mel. No one's ever had a crack at them like this. The astronomers, and astro-physicists, have learned more from Mike and Andre in the last three months than they have in the last three centuries." As the rim rotated, the earth came majestically into view. "Look at that," Stanton said. "See that cold front over the Sierras? Petrovski's data has given them forecasts down there that they've never conceived of." He waved his hand expansively. "Vacuum! Billions and billions of cubic miles of hard, hard vacuum. Trippler goes nuts at the thought of it. Any physicist, any electronic engineer, would. Temperature? Absolute zero. Absolute zero, Mel. Where else can you get absolute zero? Can't they see what it means?"

 

Mel Cramer ground out his cigarette.

 

"What does absolute zero mean, Walt? To a general?"

 

Walter kicked shut the hatch. "I don't know. I just don't know...."

 

"Walt, this deal was oversold to the military. You know it, and I know it. Frankly, you helped oversell it."

 

Walter Stanton swung around angrily. "You're right, Mel. But the end justified the means. We needed the funds; only the military could provide them. And it is useful to them; it will be, when it's finished. It would be now, if—"

 

"If we could break the agreement and leave the Galapagos Islands for a spin around the world."

 

"No!" Walter Stanton held his friend's eyes. "That isn't what I meant. This platform wasn't meant for spying; the millions of man-hours weren't spent for that. It's a UN deal, Mel, and we needed the agreement; we had to see that the Russians kept hands-off. If the price is an orbit that keeps us at earth-surface speed; if we have to stay on our side of the iron curtain, OK. We agreed to it, and by God if we grow roots down to Galapagos we're staying here."

 

Mel shrugged. "That isn't the point. The wheels know that in case of war you'd change orbits. If they thought it was worth while, they'd order you to. The UN could order you to. What they doubt is that if you moved your orbit in behind the Curtain you'd see enough to do any good."

 

"I don't care to argue that point. Right now, probably not. When the scope's completed and installed, we'll undoubtedly be able to spot concentrations and new industries. The main thing would be to stay with the station. But it's an academic question—"

 

"Is it an academic question whether they can blow us out of the sky?"

 

Walter Stanton shot him a glance. "That's your department. Can they?"

 

"Let's not kid ourselves. If they have a missile they can get up here, it'll track you. Manned or unmanned, regardless of what your orbit is or where you are."

 

"The theory is, Mel, that Ground Control Center will intercept."

 

"Walter!" Cramer's lip twisted sardonically. "I'm surprised! You didn't fall for that mullarkey, did you? How are they going to intercept anything with a head start?"

 

"Another part of the theory, Mel, is that you'll intercept if they don't. Intercept it and destroy it...."

 

"Destroy it...." For a sickening moment Walter Stanton thought he read fear in his friend's eye. Mel said quietly: "Destroy it and try to get to Sandia...." He stood up. "And suppose they have another missile? Who destroys that?"

 

"Even a guided missile would cost almost as much as our original core. Do you think they've built one, let alone two?"

 

"We'd sure find out in a hurry. We'd be their first target."

 

"And their second would probably be Sandia," Walt said thoughtfully.

 

"Don't say that!" Mel shouted. Walter looked at him in surprise. "Don't. Don't say that," Mel said again, more softly. There was a long silence. The ventilators whined. Mel passed his hand over his face. "Those damned ventilators.... How about my taking Mel's Mistress out now? Just for a while?"

 

Walter Stanton glanced sympathetically at his friend. He wants to get away from the platform, even a few thousand yards. And I can't blame him!

 

"Sure, Mel. You've read the letter now, and you know how much fuel you have, so it's up to you."

 

Mel Cramer grimaced. "Yeah, fuel. Well, I guess I'll skip it. I'm going to hit the sack."

 

Walter Stanton stared after him thoughtfully....

 

At dinner the talk was all of war; Peters, the Australian fuelman and part time cook, flicked a switch in the galley and flooded the Platform's PA system with the 10:00 P.M. news from Dallas. Petrovski, the Russians' originally unwelcome contribution to the project, but undeniably one of the world's top meteorologists, was embarrassed, and the rest of the Team tried to keep the talk on an objective, international plane. But Walter Stanton felt the strain and as Project Head tried to change the subject.

 

"Why we had to draft an Australian cook, with two Frenchmen on the team," he said, toying with his custard. "I'll never know."

 

Peters' voice from the galley said: "It's because one of the bloody Frenchmen think a cheese souffle is a new galaxy and the other thinks it's English for a cosmic particle. Besides, I don't see anybody losing weight."

 

"That's because—" began Walter Stanton, and then felt a tug at his sleeve. It was Lang, the young radar plotter and radio operator.

 

"Lieutenant Goldstein just broke this, sir," he said, handing him a dispatch. Something in his eyes chilled Walter Stanton. He read the message and cold fear squeezed him. He looked up.

 

"Gentlemen," he said, raising his hand. "Can I have your attention?"

 

The talk died. Petrovski, apparently guessing the contents of the dispatch, looked sick. Mel Cramer was staring at his glass.

 

"Gentlemen," Walter Stanton said quietly, "this is it. Mel, we were wrong. We weren't the first target. Neither was Sandia. They just bombed New York."

 

There was deathly silence for a long moment, while each man riffled through his thoughts. "Christ!" somebody swore.

 

"I've been advised by Ground Control to stand by to evacuate. Cargo One is refueling to take us off."

 

An angry babble broke out around the table. Velez, the tiny Brazilian astronomer, jumped up angrily. "Evacuate? But the Platform! What happens to it?"

 

Stanton shrugged. "Uncorrected perturbations build up, and eventually it either skids off into space or falls into the atmosphere and burns. Or maybe," he said bitterly, "we're supposed to jettison it ourselves. Sink it in space before we leave, like a crew abandoning a submarine."

 

Velez went white. "But the effort in building this; the time of the thousands of scientists and billions of dollars; what becomes of them?"

 

"They apparently consider the Platform a sitting duck, and are kind enough to take a chance on evacuating us."

 

Howard, a grey, unemotional power plant expert, a grim man whom Walter Stanton barely liked, sat back and folded his hands. He spoke with dogged emphasis.

 

"This project has taken the best of science for the last four years. It has held up research in other fields, and justifiably so. I do not propose to let four years of mankind's progress go spinning off into space alone, war or no war, Russians or no Russians. I shall not leave it. I'm a civilian, and I refuse to go. Is that clear?"

 

Walter Stanton stifled a wild impulse to laugh at the thought of Howard spinning alone and infinitely through space. Suddenly he liked the man.

 

"Any other comments?"

 

Velez bristled like a bantam rooster. "I shall stay with Senor Howard."

 

Walter Stanton set his jaw. "If I give the word, we'll evacuate, all of us. If I give the word." He glanced down the row of faces. "I'm toying with the idea of allowing volunteers to stay."

 

There was a chorus of assent. With a chill, Walter Stanton remembered Petrovski. He glanced at him and the big Russian, blond and bespectacled, arose ponderously and leaned on the table.

 

"Gentlemen.... Could I speak?"

 

"Go ahead, Ski," somebody said.

 

"I ... I do not know whether those people who rule my country are capable of destroying this ... this marvelous thing. I do not know whether they would want to destroy it...." He took off his glasses and polished them fiercely. "But if you would allow me.... If it could be arranged ... I should like to stay...."

 

Walter Stanton, touched, cleared his throat. He spoke quietly.

 

"And if it were turned into a weapon against your country?"

 

Petrovski looked as if he were about to cry. "If my country tries to destroy this wonderful thing of science.... Then it is no more my country.... And I would still like to stay...."

 

"Yes," said Stanton, a little embarrassed. "Well, we'll see...."

 

Mel Cramer leaned back suddenly in his seat. "Could a beat-up old light colonel have a few words, seeing as how this project is slipping rapidly from your league into mine?"

 

Walter Stanton gazed at him quizzically. "Of course, Mel. Go ahead."

 

"You guys are all full of bull." Cramer leaned forward, counting on his fingers. "In the first place, you wouldn't have a chance if they've got a missile that can get here. In the second place, you wouldn't do any good if you did stay. In the third place, if they tell you to get out, you'll get out. Period. Is that clear?"

 

Walter Stanton felt his blood rise. "Just a second. The Air Force advises us; the UN tells us. Let's keep that straight."

 

"Buddy," said Mel, "if I know War, it isn't going to be that way very long...."

 

The intercom system burst into life. The flat, nasal voice of Lieutenant Goldstein, the sharp young Air Force radar officer, crackled through the room.

 

"Colonel Cramer, Mr. Stanton. Would you come to Control? I've picked up a missile. I think it's headed for us...."

 

With the dim orange light of the PPI radar scope gleaming on his sharp features, Goldstein looked like some interested youngster staring into a campfire.

 

"It's on a tangential orbit now, just breaking into the exosphere—I'll be able to give you its free flight velocity in a minute."

 

"Was it three stage or two?" Cramer asked.

 

"Two, sir, apparently."

 

"So far," Mel Cramer said. "If it accelerates again, we'll know for sure."

 

From the huge transparent board behind them the plotter, Airman Lang, spoke. "I make it 700 knots relative to Platform speed, sir."

 

"Give or take a few hundred," murmured Goldstein.... "Oops ... I think she's started another burn-out period...."

 

"She's accelerating, sir," said Lang. "But fast...."

 

They watched the tiny pip while Goldstein worked with his cranks and dials. "Spatial velocity will be about 1300 knots relative, sir."

 

"Well," said Cramer. "At least I could catch it on a second pass ... if I missed." He coughed nervously. "How much time have we got?"

 

The circuit to Ground Control burst into life. "Space One, Space One, this is Ground Control. We have a missile on our scope from relay Four. Altitude four hundred miles, relative velocity 1370, Latitude—"

 

Mel Cramer picked up the mike. "OK, OK, ground control. We have it." He smiled bitterly and added: "I assume you're intercepting with a missile."

 

There was a long silence, then: "Mel, this is General Staves. You know damn well we can't intercept. We just picked it up, and we're too late."

 

Mel sounded cheerful enough, but Walter Stanton blanched as he saw the hand shaking on the mike.

 

"OK, General. We'll see what we can do. What's the status of Cargo One?"

 

"She's still taking fuel. We may be able to evacuate you if you can get this first one."

 

Walter Stanton took the mike. "General, this is Stanton. If he gets this one, we don't intend to evacuate."

 

There was a shocked silence, and then the general's dry voice.

 

"You'll evacuate, all right. And I suggest you take evasive action, in spite of your agreement."

 

"We are, General, I'm shortening our orbit now."

 

"If you see anything good over Russia," the General said, "let us know. New York you won't see."

 

"Always joking," said Airman Lang bitterly. "That's the General."

 

Walter Stanton faced Mel Cramer in the darkness. "Well, Mel...."

 

Mel tried to laugh, but his voice sounded tight. "Well, Walter...."

 

"It's up to you, Mel. The whole shebang."

 

Mel's mouth worked dryly and he nodded. "Yep. Guess.... Guess I better suit up...."

 

Walter Stanton waited inside the hub, gazing through the port at the tiny fighter across the landing-lock. I wish ... I wish it were me who could fly it, he thought desperately. He ran his hand along the support rail, as if caressing the metal and plastic of the Platform. He remembered the dreams, the toil, the heartbreak, far back to when men laughed at the concept of a platform in space. He thought of the pioneers of rocket work, some of them dead; the men at Peenemunde using their brains for war but even so adding painstakingly to the fund of knowledge. He thought of the moment of blinding elation three months before, when the last reactor had been cut off and the core of Space One swung easily into her orbit. If only Mel could understand.... Better yet, if I could fly.... He knew certainly that he himself would give his life to save the Platform; knew surely that Lynne would understand. But would Mel Cramer give his life? For his country, probably; for his home and family, surely; but for what he seemed to consider a useless scientific gadget?

 

He heard a movement and turned. Mel Cramer, massive in his flight gear, but with his helmet off, was standing behind him. His face was drawn.

 

"Well, Walter, wish me luck."

 

"Mel.... Do you know what this means? Really?"

 

"My indoctrination is complete, if that's what you mean. I can't agree with you that the world will fall apart if Space One isn't a success, but the world's falling apart anyway, so it really doesn't matter. I'll make my passes as close as possible."

 

And if you miss? thought Walter Stanton. What will you do? Will you make another pass, a sacrificial pass? He wished for a moment that their culture embodied the Oriental concept of patriotism; the disregard for human life, the fatalistic belief in some paradise for battle-dead.

 

"Mel," he said suddenly, forcing the words. "What happens if you miss?"

 

Mel Cramer's jaw tightened, "just a minute, Walt," he said slowly. "I don't quite know what you're getting at, but I have an idea. Are you suggesting that I fly into that thing?"

 

There was a long silence, and the ventilators whined.

 

Walter nodded his head slowly. "Yes, Mel. If necessary."

 

Mel Cramer stared at him. "This isn't a Japanese kamikaze pilot you're talking to! This is Mel Cramer. I was an ace as a kid in Korea, and nobody ever accused me of being yellow, but I didn't sign up for this job to commit suicide. That isn't the way we do it. That's why I'm carrying rockets instead of a warhead full of tetryl. And it's why we win wars; we don't sacrifice the men we've got; we give 'em every chance."

 

Walter Stanton said: "It's not my prerogative to ask you to sacrifice yourself. It's just that.... This project...."

 

"Everybody on this project is a volunteer."

 

"It isn't us; it's the Platform."

 

"Everybody on the Platform is a volunteer," Mel Cramer repeated doggedly. "Everyone knew the chances he was taking. And there isn't a one of them who loves his wife and kid anymore than I do."

 

Through the sickness of his disappointment, Walter Stanton forced a grin. "OK, Mel. My love to Marge when you get to Sandia; and tell Lynne ... tell her...."

 

"I'll tell her you'll be back on Cargo One by tomorrow," Mel Cramer said. "If," he added softly, "I make it to Sandia Base, and if Sandia Base is still there...."

 

Cramer glanced through the port at the mechanic waiting to help him into the tiny fighter, shivered a little, snapped on his helmet and stepped out to the catwalk. Walter Stanton watched through the port as the huge air-lock opened and Mel Cramer eased the Mistress out. She nestled next to the Platform like a small, angry wasp near a hive, power off, waiting for intercept data from Goldstein in Control. Walter Stanton felt a chill race up his back. He started up the ladder.

 

Goldstein had flicked on the remote telescreen and was watching it, with one eye on the PPI scope. The screen came to life, and Walter Stanton saw a clear picture of Space One as Mel Cramer pointed the Mistress at the platform to aid in focussing.

 

"OK, Colonel," Goldstein said. "Screen controls locked."

 

"Screen controls locked," Mel Cramer's voice repeated. The image of Space One disappeared from the screen as the Mistress swung to the East, paralleling the motion of the platform in space, ready to add its speed to that of the artificial satellite. "Heading zero-nine-zero," said Cramer. "Ready to launch."

 

"Blast for ten seconds," said Goldstein, "and stand by for intercept information."

 

"Blasting." Cramer's voice seemed strained. Then: "Power off! Swinging!"

 

Walter Stanton stared at the telescreen, a duplicate of Mel's screen, and the very eyes of the Mistress, since her windshield would be covered against the sandblasting meteoric dust until the last seconds of the firing run. The time seemed to press on the back of his neck, and he felt his head ache with the strain. The ventilators moaned. Goldstein spoke suddenly.

 

"Missile eight hundred miles earthward, rate of closure 480 knots, twelve o'clock from you." His voice rose slightly. "Have you got it, Colonel? Is it on your screen?"

 

There was an aching void of silence, then "Affirm! I have it. Commencing first pass!"

 

Walter Stanton became suddenly aware that Radar Control was crowded. He heard Peters' voice: "How many runs can he make?"

 

"Two runs; he'll fire two proximity rockets per pass. They ought to track the missile."

 

"Yeah," said Lang dryly. "It's all doped out. This science is wonderful...."

 

Walter Stanton jumped as an image of the missile appeared on the telescreen. From a tiny flash it grew quickly more bright until it was a circle on the screen. "Locked!" grated Cramer's voice. "Firing!"

 

Two streaks appeared at the bottom of the screen and darted for the circle. Walter Stanton heard a gasp of relief in the compartment as they sped true, straight for the center. Then, amazingly, the streaks wobbled erratically and streaked away. The circle of light moved slowly downward off the screen as Mel Cramer pulled up.

 

"Missed," breathed Goldstein. "Brother...."

 

Mel Cramer's voice cut into the silence. It was strained and uncertain. "I think it's jamming my control heads.... Putting out strips, maybe. I'm making another pass."

 

"Thanks, Colonel," whispered Lang from the plotting board. "This is what Uncle pays you for.... Let's earn it...."

 

For an eternity they waited, and again the circles appeared in the center of the screen. "Locked," Mel Cramer said. Closer and closer moved the light, and for a moment Walter Stanton had a wild burst of hope. The target seemed too close to miss; the two rockets streaked for it, reaching hungrily. Then they wobbled again and disappeared from the screen as Mel Cramer pulled up. There was a chilling silence in the room.

 

"Well," said Goldstein, "that does it. We've got ... let's see ... 176 seconds, if anyone cares to know."

 

Mel Cramer's voice came into the room as if from the grave. "It.... It was jamming ... I was right on!"

 

"Excuses, Colonel," muttered Lang. "Always excuses...."

 

Goldstein talked into the mike. "Colonel, I suggest you commence your braking ellipse immediately. I don't know what effect the explosion will have in this orbit, but I think you'd better leave it."

 

Walter Stanton turned desperately to Goldstein. "Goldie, is it certain? We've got to save the platform! Suppose I use full reactors, shorten our orbit even faster?"

 

"It won't matter, sir." He jammed his thumb at the PPI scope. "That thing's tailing us like a flying cadet after a WAF. It'd follow us all the way back to Sandia if we could get there."

 

Walter Stanton felt the Platform, his dream, pulsing around him. For a moment he felt an affection even for the maddening wail of the ventilators. Behind him, he knew, were some of the best brains in science; men whose concepts cut across the lines of nationalism; who by their presence on the Platform showed that they disregarded the very instinct of self-preservation in the search for Truth. And he felt the presence too of the thousands below who had helped make the Platform a reality. He took a deep breath. Then he picked up the microphone and spoke to his friend.

 

"Mel, this is Walt. I've just received a dispatch. Do not—repeat—do not land at Sandia. Suggest you try to use White Sands."

 

Mel's startled voice came back. "Why?"

 

Walter Stanton felt his hands grow clammy.

 

"They just destroyed Sandia Base."

 

Goldstein gaped at him. "What.... What are you telling him?" He moved for the mike, but Walter Stanton shook his head.

 

The speaker crackled. "Destroyed? Sandia destroyed?"

 

"Entirely."

 

"The—The dependents' quarters too?"

 

Walter Stanton forced out the words. "Everything, Mel."

 

There was a long silence, and then Mel Cramer spoke, and his voice was tired. "Vector me, Goldie."

 

Goldstein said: "To White Sands, Colonel?"

 

Behind the tiredness and the sadness Walter Stanton caught a hint of strength in the voice that came back.

 

"To the missile...."

 

Goldstein hesitated, looked at Walter Stanton.

 

"Do it, son," said Stanton....

 

He could never afterwards remember how long he had been sitting at his desk when Goldstein tapped on the hatch and entered, carrying a message. The lean youth looked down at him.

 

"First, sir, I want to say that I understand...."

 

Walter Stanton looked at him gratefully. "You know it wasn't to save us.... Just the Platform...."

 

"I know it, and it took more guts than I've ever seen. But you'll need guts for this too, sir...."

 

He handed Stanton the message.

 

FROM: EARTH CONTROL CENTER

 

TO: SPACE ONE

 

SANDIA BASE DESTROYED ENEMY BOMBING ATTACK STAVES

 

The dull throbbing ache started in his chest, and he knew that it might live with him for the rest of his life. He let the message fall.

 

"If you get a list of dependent casualties, call a conference immediately."

 

"Yes sir. Anything else, sir?"

 

He forced himself to forget Lynne and Karen and concentrate on the new problems. He moved to the deck-port and kicked open the cover. On their shortened orbit they were moving in relation to the earth's surface now; the west coast of Africa lay below.

 

"Did Cargo One get launched?"

 

"No, sir. Destroyed while fueling."

 

One of the problems, then, would be starvation; Cargo Two was months from completion. But at least, if they could survive, they'd have a chance to prove themselves; to prove the value of the Platform in war as well as peace; to save the tiny satellite for its intended use. He turned to Goldstein.

 

"Pass the word for that conference now. We've got some high-powered IQ's up here and there's a war going on. Maybe we can make it the last one...."