Ted wrestled with the figures, intricate maps of the Moon spread before him, the supply dump in Mare Imbrium pin-pointed exactly. He took into account the lack of atmosphere and the light gravity. He plotted his orbit as carefully as a man rigging a time-bomb mechanism. He calculated turnover point to the millisecond, knowing that an error this time would mean disaster, complete and irrevocable. He worked with the slide rule ceaselessly, pausing occasionally to gaze through the viewport at the baking ground outside while he wrestled with a difficult mental knot. He would brake again by decelerating and blasting his tubes against the Moon’s surface. He calculated the exact moment for the braking blast, and he calculated exactly how long that jet thrust should last. When he finally finished, he had sheets of scrap paper covered with figures — but he knew exactly what he was going to do.
Or at least, he hoped he did.
Dr. Gehardt helped Dr. Phelps strap the two injured men into their couches. They took to their own couches, then, and Ted made a last-minute check of his figures before lying down. He swung the control panel in place over the couch, flicked on the radar switches.
A new thought struck him, and he felt his heart quicken in panic.
“The tubes! The stilts! Have they... have they...?”
“They’ve been repaired,” Dr. Phelps assured him. “Fred and I worked on them all the while you were gone.”
“And they’re all right?”
“Let us hope so,” Dr. Gehardt said.
“We followed all the directions Dan left,” Dr. Phelps explained. “As far as we know, they’re in good condition now. Naturally, we couldn’t test them.”
“Then there’s no way of knowing until...”
“Until we try them. That’s right.”
Ted swallowed hard. Suppose they hadn’t been repaired correctly? Suppose one or more of the tubes was still blocked? Suppose the landing stilt collapsed again?
“Baker,” Dr. Phelps said softly.
Ted, absorbed in his own thoughts, nodded weakly.
“Ted,” Dr. Phelps called again.
“Hmm?”
“Ted, don’t worry. We’re not expecting miracles. If you get us there, we’ll be grateful. If you don’t...” Dr. Phelps shrugged his bony shoulders, “...you simply don’t. We’ll certainly know you tried.”
“I’ll do my best,” Ted said softly.
“Are we about ready?”
Ted heaved a sigh. “Yes. Yes, I guess we are.”
“Shall we go then?”
“I... I guess we’d better. I...” He gulped hard.
“What is it, Ted?”
“I’m scared stiff,” Ted admitted.
“You know something, Ted?”
“What?”
“I’ve never been so frightened in my life,” Dr. Phelps said. He was not smiling. His eyes were dead serious.
“I think we’re all pretty well frightened,” Dr. Gehardt put in. “Death in a strange land is never a bright prospect.”
Ted nodded, accepting the men’s statements. “If you’re ready to try...”
“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” Dr. Phelps said.
Dr. Gehardt nodded and made himself comfortable on the couch.
Ted snapped on the rear radar. The glare of the Moon’s surface filled the screen, the portion beneath the blasting tubes in deep, black shadow.
“I’m setting the controls for a time blastoff,” Ted said. “We’ll be blasting off ten seconds after I push this button.”
“We’re ready.”
“Here goes, then.”
Ted stabbed at the button on the control panel, and the roar of the engines thundered into the cabin.
He watched the second hand on the chrono, counting the seconds as they fled by.
“This is it!” he shouted.
The words had scarcely left his mouth when the rocket started to rise, slowly at first, and then ripping away from the Moon’s light gravity. Ted kept his eyes on the altimeter, checking their rate of climb. Acceleration pressed down on his chest with its familiar force, but he kept his fingers widespread on the control panel, ready to reach for the buttons that would swing them into an orbit.
Figures ran through his head like runaway cattle, and for a brief instant, he thought they would all blur together into an incomprehensible jumble of numbers. He kept watching the altimeter as the rocket climbed. His fingers moved with lightning speed when the needle nudged the height he had planned on. He pressed the button that gave a blast of the port rockets, releasing the button instantly. He gave another blast, watching the heavy bar that registered the tilt of the ship. Another blast, and the ship was on the course he wanted. It should now be in an orbit that would swing it around the Moon in a matter of minutes. He cut the engines and allowed the rocket to fall. It swung around in a wide arc, matching the curvature of the surface, a metallic bullet that gleamed in the sunlight.
He watched the chrono, aware that the cabin was silent, aware that the men were occupied with their own thoughts. The minute hand crept around as the rocket fell in a tightening arc, closer, closer to the jagged surface below. Quickly he set the flywheel in motion, giving the ship a blast of the starboard jets at the same time. If he’d calculated correctly, they should be nearing Mare Imbrium, and it would soon be time to turn on the stern jets.
The chrono ticked off the seconds. Silently, Ted studied its face with careful scrutiny. He checked the altimeter, and then his eyes fled to the speedometer and back to the chrono once more. In the radar screen overhead, the ground flashed by in a dazzling blur.
There was darkness outside now. They had left the Sun behind them in Mare Crisium.
With a rapid sweep of his eyes, Ted checked the time, altitude, and speed again. His figures were jibing. It might work. He mumbled a prayer softly, a prayer that barely escaped his lips.
Like a team of marching soldiers, the chrono, the altimeter, and the speedometer reached the calculated figures together. Ted took a deep breath and pressed the button that fired the stern jets.
There was a hollow rush of thunder, like a truck slamming into a brick wall. The ship shivered violently and brought its nose up suddenly, pointing it at the sky. They began to drop, faster, faster.
“Something’s wrong,” Ted shouted.
He gave a short blast of the starboard jets, bringing the ship’s stern around, turning it to face the barren surface beneath them. Something was straining at the tubes, roaring in almost animal fury, bellowing to be released. The engines coughed as they dropped closer to the Moon.
Ted knew what was wrong, then, and he reached for the cease-fire button, ready to cut the power from the stern jets.
A muffled explosion sounded from below, and the deck suddenly billowed up beneath them like an opening metal flower casting sharp seeds to the wind. The metal pinged around the compartment, bouncing off the bulkheads, imbedding itself in the couches. There was another explosion, and a lance of fire leaped up through the hole in the deck, scorching the overhead black.
The ship screamed in protest like a wounded animal with its entrails dripping. The bulkheads shook as if they would tear loose at any second. In the radar screen, the surface of the Moon was large and close.
Frantically, Ted stabbed at the button, cutting the jets. He reached for the landing-gear controls, releasing the stilts. The stilts screeched against the jagged surface, filling the cabin with the high whine of tearing metal. Ted clenched his teeth, his insides knotted into a tight ball, as the ship hit the surface.