<h2><SPAN name="c7" id="c7"></SPAN><i>7</i></h2>
<p>Time passed. Hours, then days. Things began to
happen. Trucks appeared, loaded down with sacks of white
powder. The powder was very messily mixed with water and<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_92" id="Page_92"></SPAN></span>
smeared lavishly over the now waterproofed wooden mockup
of a space ship. It came off again in sections of white plaster,
which were numbered and set to dry in warm chambers that
were constructed with almost magical speed. More trucks arrived,
bearing such diverse objects as loads of steel turnings,
a regenerative helium-cooling plant from a gaswell—it could
cool metal down to the point where it crumbled to impalpable
powder at a blow—and assorted fuel tanks, dynamos, and electronic
machinery.</p>
<p>Ten days after Mike's first proposal of concreted steel as a
material for space ship construction, the parts of the first
casting of the mockup were assembled. They were a mold
for the hull of a space ship. There were more plaster sections
for a second mold ready to be dried out now, but meanwhile
vehicles like concrete mixers mixed turnings and filings and
powder in vast quantities and poured the dry mass here and
there in the first completed mold. Then men began to wrap
the gigantic object with iron wire. Presently that iron wire
glowed slightly, and the whole huge mold grew hotter and
hotter and hotter. And after a time it was allowed to cool.</p>
<p>But that did not mean a ceasing of activity. The plaster
casts had been made while the concreting process was worked
out. The concreting process—including the heating—was in
action while fittings were being flown to the Shed. But other
hulls were being formed by metal-concrete formation even
before the first mold was taken down.</p>
<p>When the plaster sections came off, there was a long,
gleaming, frosty-sheened metal hull waiting for the fittings. It
was a replacement of one of the two shot-down space craft,
ready for fitting out some six weeks ahead of schedule. Next
day there was a second metal hull, still too hot to touch. The
day after that there was another.</p>
<p>Then they began to be turned out at the rate of two a
day, and all the vast expanse of the Shed resounded with the
work on them. Drills drilled and torches burned and hammers
hammered. Small diesels rumbled. Disk saws cut metal
like butter by the seemingly impractical method of spinning
at 20,000 revolutions per minute. Convoys of motor busses<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_93" id="Page_93"></SPAN></span>
rolled out from Bootstrap at change-shift time, and there
were again Security men at every doorway, moving continually
about.</p>
<p>But it still didn't look too good. There is apparently no
way to beat arithmetic, and a definitely grim problem still remained.
Ten days after the beginning of the new construction
program, Joe and Sally looked down from a gallery high up
in the outward-curving wall of the Shed. Acres of dark flooring
lay beneath them. There was a spiral ramp that wound
round and round between the twin skins of the fifty-story-high
dome. It led finally to the Communications Room at the very
top of the Shed itself.</p>
<p>Where Joe and Sally looked down, the floor was 300 feet
below. Welding arcs glittered. Rivet guns chattered. Trucks
came in the doorways with materials, and there was already a
gleaming row of eighty-foot hulls. There were eleven of them
already uncovered, and small trucks ran up to their sides to
feed the fitting-out crews such items as air tanks and gyro
assemblies and steering rocket piping and motors, and short
wave communicators and control boards. Exit doors were
being fitted. The last two hulls to be uncovered were being
inspected with portable x-ray outfits, in search of flaws. And
there were still other ungainly white molds, which were
other hulls in process of formation—the metal still pouring into
the molds in powder form, or being tamped down, or being
sintered to solidity.</p>
<p>Joe leaned on the gallery-railing and said unhappily, "I
can't help worrying, even though the Platform hasn't been
shot at since we landed."</p>
<p>That wasn't an expression of what he was thinking. He
was thinking about matters the enemies of the Platform would
have liked to know about. Sally knew these matters too. But
top secret information isn't talked about by the people who
know it, unless they are actively at work on it. At all other
times one pretends even to himself that he doesn't know it.
That is the only possible way to avoid leaks.</p>
<p>The top secret information was simply that it was still impossible
to supply the Platform. Ships could be made faster<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_94" id="Page_94"></SPAN></span>
than had ever been dreamed of before, but so long as any
ship that went up could be destroyed on the way down, the
supply of the Platform was impractical. But the ships were
being built regardless, against the time when a way to get
them down again was thought of. As of the moment it hadn't
been thought of yet.</p>
<p>But building the ships anyhow was unconscious genius,
because nobody but Americans could imagine anything so
foolish. The enemies of the Platform and of the United States
knew that full-scale production of ships by some fantastic
new method was in progress. The fact couldn't be hidden.
But nobody in a country where material shortages were
chronic could imagine building ships before a way to use
them was known. So the Platform's enemies were convinced
that the United States had something wholly new and very
remarkable, and threatened their spies with unspeakable fates
if they didn't find out what it was.</p>
<p>They didn't find out. The rulers of the enemy nations
knew, of course, that if a new—say—space-drive had been invented,
they would very soon have to change their tune. So
there were no more attacks on the Platform. It floated serenely
overhead, sending down astronomical observations and solar-constant
measurements and weather maps, while about it
floated a screen of garbage and discarded tin cans.</p>
<p>But Joe and Sally looked down where the ships were being
built while the problem of how to use them was debated.</p>
<p>"It's a tough nut to crack," said Joe dourly.</p>
<p>It haunted him. Ships going up had to have crews. Crews
had to come down again because they had to leave supplies
at the Platform, not consume them there. Getting a ship up to
orbit was easier than getting it down again.</p>
<p>"The Navy's been working on light guided missiles," said
Sally.</p>
<p>"No good," snapped Joe.</p>
<p>It wasn't. He'd been asked for advice. Could a space ship
crew control guided missiles and fight its way back to ground
with them? The answer was that it could. But guided missiles
used to fight one's way down would have to be carried up<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_95" id="Page_95"></SPAN></span>
first. And they would weigh as much as all the cargo a ship
could carry. A ship that carried fighting rockets couldn't carry
cargo. Cargo at the Platform was the thing desired.</p>
<p>"All that's needed," said Sally, watching Joe's face, "is a
slight touch of genius. There's been genius before now. Burning
your cabin free with landing-rocket flames——"</p>
<p>"Haney's idea," growled Joe dispiritedly.</p>
<p>"And making more ships in a hurry with metal-concrete——"</p>
<p>"Mike did that," said Joe ruefully.</p>
<p>"But you made the garbage-screen for the Platform," insisted
Sally.</p>
<p>"Sanford had made a wisecrack," said Joe. "And it just
happened that it made sense that he hadn't noticed." He
grimaced. "You say something like that, now...."</p>
<p>Sally looked at him with soft eyes. It wasn't really his job,
this worrying. The top-level brains of the armed forces were
struggling with it. They were trying everything from redesigned
rocket motors to really radical notions. But there wasn't
anything promising yet.</p>
<p>"What's really needed," said Sally regretfully, "is a way
for ships to go up to the Platform and not have to come back."</p>
<p>"Sure!" said Joe ironically. Then he said, "Let's go down!"</p>
<p>They started down the long, winding ramp which led between
the two skins of the Shed's wall. It was quite empty, this
long, curving, descending corridor. It was remarkably private.
In a place like the Shed, with frantic activity going on all
around, and even at Major Holt's quarters where Sally lived
and Joe was a guest, there wasn't often a chance for them to
talk in any sort of actual privacy.</p>
<p>But Joe went on, scowling. Sally went with him. If she
seemed to hang back a little at first, he didn't notice. Presently
she shrugged her shoulders and ceased to try to make him notice
that nobody else happened to be around. They made a
complete circuit of the Shed within its wall, Joe staring ahead
without words.</p>
<p>Then he stopped abruptly. His expression was unbelieving.
Sally almost bumped into him.</p>
<p>"What's the matter?"<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_96" id="Page_96"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>"You had it, Sally!" he said amazedly. "You did it! You said
it!"</p>
<p>"What?"</p>
<p>"The touch of genius!" He almost babbled. "Ships that can
go up to the Platform and not have to come back! Sally, you
did it! You did it!"</p>
<p>She regarded him helplessly. He took her by the shoulders
as if to shake her into comprehension. But he kissed her exuberantly
instead.</p>
<p>"Come on!" he said urgently. "I've got to tell the gang!"</p>
<p>He grabbed her hand and set off at a run for the bottom of
the ramp. And Sally, with remarkably mingled emotions
showing on her face, was dragged in his wake.</p>
<p>He was still pulling her after him when he found the Chief
and Haney and Mike in the room at Security where they were
practically self-confined, lest their return to Earth become
too publicly known. Mike was stalking up and down with
his hands clasped behind his back, glum as a miniature Napoleon
and talking bitterly. The Chief was sprawled in a
chair. Haney sat upright regarding his knuckles with a
thoughtful air.</p>
<p>Joe stepped inside the door. Mike continued without a
pause: "I tell you, if they'll only use little guys like me, the
cabin and supplies and crew can be cut down by tons! Even
the instruments can be smaller and weigh less! Four of us in a
smaller cabin, less grub and air and water—we'll save tons
in cabin-weight alone! Why can't you big lummoxes see it?"</p>
<p>"We see it, Mike," Haney said mildly. "You're right. But
people won't do it. It's not fair, but they won't."</p>
<p>Joe said, beaming, "Besides, Mike, it'd bust up our gang!
And Sally's just gotten the real answer! The answer is for
ships to go up to the Platform and not come back!"</p>
<p>He grinned at them. The Chief raised his eyebrows. Haney
turned his head to stare. Joe said exuberantly: "They've been
talking about arming ships with guided missiles to fight with.
Too heavy, of course. But—if we could handle guided missiles,
why couldn't we handle drones?"<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_97" id="Page_97"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>The three of them gaped at him. Sally said, startled, "But—but,
Joe, I didn't——"</p>
<p>"We've got plenty of hulls!" said Joe. Somehow he still
looked astonished at what he'd made of Sally's perfectly obvious
comment. "Mike's arranged for that! Make—say—six of
'em into drones—space barges. Remote-controlled ships. Control
them from one manned ship—the tug! We'll ride that! Take
'em up to the Platform exactly like a tug tows barges. The
tow-line will be radio beams. We'll have a space-tow up, and
not bother to bring the barges back! There won't be any landing
rockets! They'll carry double cargo! That's the answer! A
space tug hauling a tow to the Platform!"</p>
<p>"But, Joe," insisted Sally, "I didn't think of——"</p>
<p>The Chief heaved himself up. Haney's voice cut through
what the Chief was about to say. Haney said drily: "Sally, if
Joe hadn't kissed you for thinking that up, I would. Makes
me feel mighty dumb."</p>
<p>Mike swallowed. Then he said loyally, "Yeah. Me too. I'd've
made a two-ton cargo possible—maybe. But this adds up.
What does the major say?"</p>
<p>"I—haven't talked to him. I'd better, right away." Joe
grinned. "I wanted to tell you first."</p>
<p>The Chief grunted. "Good idea. But hold everything!" He
fumbled in his pocket. "The arithmetic is easy enough, Joe.
Cut out the crew and air and you save something." He felt
in another pocket. "Leave off the landing rockets, and you
save plenty more. Count in the cargo you could take anyhow"—— he
searched another pocket still——"and you get forty-two
tons of cargo per space barge, delivered at the Platform.
Six drones—that's 252 tons in one tow! Here!" He'd found
what he wanted. It was a handkerchief. He thrust it upon
Joe. "Wipe that lipstick off, Joe, before you go talk to the
major. He's Sally's father and he might not like it."</p>
<p>Joe wiped at his face. Sally, her eyes shining, took the
handkerchief from him and finished the job. She displayed
that remarkable insensitivity of females in situations productive
of both pride and embarrassment. When a girl or a woman is
proud, she is never embarrassed.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_98" id="Page_98"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>She and Joe went away, and Sally rushed right into her
father's office. In fifteen minutes technical men began to arrive
for conferences, summoned by telephone. Within forty-five
minutes, messengers carried orders out to the Shed floor
and stopped the installation of certain types of fittings in all
but one of the hulls. In an hour and a half, top technical designers
were doing the work of foremen and getting things
done without benefit of blueprints. The proposal was beautifully
simple to put into practice. Guided-missile control systems
were already in mass production. They could simply be
adjusted to take care of drones.</p>
<p>Within twelve hours there were truck-loads of new sorts
of supplies arriving at the Shed. Some were Air Force supplies
and some were Ordnance, and some were strictly Quartermaster.
These were not component parts of space ships. They
were freight for the Platform.</p>
<p>And, just forty-eight hours after Joe and Sally looked dispiritedly
down upon the floor of the Shed, there were seven
gleaming hulls in launching cages and the unholy din of
landing pushpots outside the Shed. They came with hysterical
cries from their airfield to the south, and they flopped flat
with extravagant crashings on the desert outside the eastern
door.</p>
<p>By the time the pushpots had been hauled in, one by one,
and had attached themselves to the launching cages, Joe and
Haney and the Chief and Mike had climbed into the cabin
of the one ship which was not a drone. There were now seven
cages in all to be hoisted toward the sky. A great double triangular
gore had been jacked out and rolled aside to make an
exit in the side of the Shed. Nearly as many pushpots, it
seemed, were involved in this launching as in the take-off of
the Platform itself.</p>
<p>The routine test before take-off set the pushpot motors to
roaring inside the Shed. The noise was the most sustained and
ghastly tumult that had been heard on Earth since the departure
of the Platform.</p>
<p>But this launching was not so impressive. It was definitely
untidy, imprecise, and unmilitary. There were seven eighty-foot<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_99" id="Page_99"></SPAN></span>
hulls in cages surrounded by clustering, bellowing, preposterous
groups of howling objects that looked like over-sized
black beetles. One of the seven hulls had eyes. The
others were blind—but they were equipped with radio antennae.
The ship with eyes had several small basket-type
radar bowls projecting from its cabin plating.</p>
<p>The seven objects rose one by one and went bellowing and
blundering out to the open air. At 40 and 50 feet above the
ground, they jockeyed into some sort of formation, with much
wallowing and pitching and clumsy maneuvering.</p>
<p>Then, without preliminary, they started up. They rose
swiftly. The noise of their going diminished from a bellow
to a howl, and from a howl to a moaning noise, and then to
a faint, faint, ever-dwindling hum.</p>
<p>Presently that faded out, too.</p>
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