“You probably brought some along,” Chuck guessed, laughing.
“Smart boy.” Jeff pointed to a bag at his side. “But you haven’t figured yet what you’d do to get aboard? It isn’t a pushover—they have guards around the ship. And if you’re found before take-off, they’ll practically clap you in irons.”
“I know it. But I was figuring that maybe I could slip past the guards.”
“Not a chance. There’s an electric eye system the guard has to let down—I’ve been looking it over on the quiet. We’ll have to work it out some way, but I’m not sure yet how.”
Chuck climbed into the new space suit, while Jeff put on his old one. They started toward the tractor port, and Chuck frowned. He’d expected to travel on foot to the Eros. Then he realized Jeff was right; the only thing was to act as if they were on legitimate business.
He put his head against the pilot’s.
“How about you, Jeff? Are you sure it won’t get you in trouble?”
“Maybe—but I’ve been in trouble before. I used to be something of a character. I’ll make out. And Chuck—”
“Yes?”
“If we see Vance or Steele, forget everything. They’d have to turn you in, since they’re officials responsible to the UN. Otherwise, get aboard somehow, and leave the guards up to me. I may be able to swing it.
It didn’t sound as easy as Chuck had thought When they got to the ship, it looked worse. The place was lighted, though not brightly, and the single guard was directly below the air lock.
Chuck swung off the tractor and headed forward, fiddling with the tiny dial on his chest that turned the radio. He kept calling until the other’s voice was suddenly in his ears. “Who is it? Wong?”
“Chuck Svensen. I came to pick up some tools I suddenly remembered I’d left. Any chance of going inside?”
“Oh, Chuck.” It was one of the construction crew. The man nodded. “No reason why you can’t go up; you know the ship. We’re just keeping fools from getting lost inside, if they get curious. What about Foldingchair, though?”
“He’s just waiting for me,” Chuck answered. “I may be quite a while locating the tools, though.”
The guard laughed. “Want a good look around, eh?
Okay, I know how you feel. If you’re not back when I go off, I’ll tell my relief to let you out. The beam’s off—go ahead.”
Chuck grunted unhappily. He’d been hoping they wouldn’t maintain a guard up till the last minute, but the “relief sounded as if they were taking no chances. But it was too late to back out. He went up the ladder and into the ship. Jeff touched helmets with the guard.
The guard’s radio carried the words. “How about letting me in the radar-shack for a smoke. Red? I’ll give you a chance afterwards, if you like.”
“You’ve got a bargain, Foldingchair.” There was no suspicion in Red’s voice. “I’ve been dying for a smoke. Doors open.”
Chuck found his way to the third level of the hydroponics room. It was filled with tanks of weedlike plants in chemical-soaked foam-plastic “soil.” The low ceiling was blazing with fluorescent lights. Here the carbon dioxide would be released again for re-use. It formed a balance that would make it unnecessary to take along much extra oxygen in high-pressure, tanks, and there was no limit to the length of time the air could be used that way.
He moved toward the center of the deck, where equipment for tending the plants was stored. There was an air-cushion there for use under the tanks, if cleaning was needed. He hauled it out, inflated it from a near-by air hose, and spread it out under one of the tanks. There was just enough room for him to slide in, and it formed a fair hiding place.
Jeff’s voice reached him again. “Thanks, Red. Kid hasn’t come out, eh? I suppose I’ll have to wait all night. Why don’t you catch a nap, and let me guard? Any reason against it?”
“No-o” Hesitation gave place to relief. “Why not, if you’re willing? My relief will be here in a couple hours, but if I can sleep in the shack, I’ll be right here for take-off. Thanks, Foldingchair, I’ll do you a favor sometime. Wake me up if the kid comes out and you want to leave.”
Chuck switched off the radio. Jeff had pulled it off. Now all he had to worry about would be a last-minute search— and Jeff would probably hide the little tractor and claim Chuck had gone home, if anyone asked.
He slipped out of the space suit, hid it under another tank, and relaxed on the cushion. Reaction from the excitement set in, leaving him weak and trembling. But that passed quickly. He was surprised to find himself getting sleepy as the hours passed.
CHAPTER 5
All Hands to Control
Chuck’s mind was half-asleep, but the shock of the acceleration hit at him before he could begin to sit up. They were using less acceleration here than from an Earth start-the lighter gravity of the moon made less violent beginnings economically sound—but it was still bad.
The cushion had never been designed for such pressure. It sank beneath him, leaving his hips and shoulders against the flat metal floor. He groaned, trying to take up more of the crushing weight on his legs and arms. But it was useless. He had to take it. Then it was too much. Painfully, he rolled onto his side; the effort sent the blood racing to the lower side of his body; then he managed to get over on his stomach. It was almost as bad, but not quite.
The minutes dragged, while he sweated it out. Acceleration seemed to go on endlessly, though it could not have been more than ten minutes.
Suddenly it was over. The recoil of the cushion threw him against the bottom of the tank, bringing a groan from him as his bruised flesh took the force of it
But he had no time to worry about that. He was on his way to Mars! All he had to do was to remain hidden for a day, and there was nothing that could keep him from making the trip.
He crawled about, using his hands to pull himself along, since there was no weight to anchor him down. In the bag Jeff had packed, he found a plastic container of water and a bar of chocolate. He munched the candy and drank the water, sucking it through its little nipple. His stomach rebelled at first, refusing to function without gravity to give him weight.
The sound of footsteps sent him scurrying back under the tank before the big figure of Dick Steele came down the handrails from above, hand over hand. The engineer glanced over the huge hydroponics room, and went on down to the lower levels.
Chuck darted out to where he’d left the bag in plain view. He’d been lucky that time, but Steele might see it on the way back. He glanced at the opening for the handrails.
The sound of a gong reached his ears, but he disregarded it. It was too late when he realized what it meant. The rockets suddenly roared behind, slapping him down against the floor. He had barely time to fall limply, and to try to support himself on his hands and bruised knees.
Then it was over. The speed must have been slightly too little, but it had needed only a touch to correct it. Chuck had been braced when it went off. Now his legs and arms acted as springs, throwing him up against the ceiling. He grasped for a hold and almost managed to stop.
But his clawing just missed the mark. He began sailing along midway between floor and ceiling, heading thirty feet away toward the wall of the ship, traveling as slowly as a falling feather.
He looked down and up, but it would be at least a minute before he could get his hands on something to pull him down. He began threshing the air, trying to swim through it. Each motion of his arms jerked his whole body in the opposite direction. Swimming in air was possible, but it was slow and very awkward business.