The Rolling Stones

VI - BALLISIICS AND BUSTER

Blasting off from Luna is not the terrifying and oppressive experience that a lift from Earth is. The Moon's field is so weak, her gravity well so shallow, that a boost of one-g would suffice - just enough to produce Earth-normal weight.

Captain Stone chose to use two gravities, both to save time and to save fuel by getting quickly away from Luna - "quickly' because any reactive mass spent simply to hold a spaceship up against the pull of a planet is an 'overhead' cost; it does nothing toward getting one where one wants to go. Furthermore, while the Rolling Stone would operate at low thrust she could do so only by being very wasteful of reactive mass, i.e., by not letting the atomic pile heat the hydrogen hot enough to produce a really efficient jet speed.

So he caused the Stone to boost at two gravities for slightly over two minutes. Two gravities - a mere nothing! The pres­sure felt by a wrestler pinned to the mat by the body of his opponent - the acceleration experienced by a child in a school-yard swing - hardly more than the push resulting from standing up very suddenly.

But the Stone family had been living on Luna; all the children had been born there - two gravities was twelve times what they were used to.

Roger's headache, which had quieted under the sedative his wife had prescribed for him, broke out again with renewed strength. His chest felt caved in; he fought for breath and he had to read and reread the accelerometer to convince himself that the ship had not run wild.

After checking over his board and assuring himself that all was going according to plan even if it did feel like a major catastrophe he turned his head heavily. "Cas? You all right?"

Castor gasped, "Sure Skipper... tracking to flight plan.

"Very well, sir." He turned his face to his inter-com link. "Edith -"

There was no answer. "Edith"

This time a strained voice replied, "Yes, dear."

"Are you alright?"

" Yes, dear. Meade and I... are all right. The baby is having a bad time."

He was about to call the power room when Castor reminded him of the passage of time. "Twenty seconds! Nineteen! Eighteen -"

He tumed his eyes to the brennschluss timer and poised his hand on the cut-off switch, ready to choke the jet if the autopilot s­hould fail. Across from him Castor covered him should he fail; below in the power room Hazel was doing the same thing, hand trembling over the cut-off.

As the timer flashed the last half second, as Castor shouted, "Brennschluss!", three hands slammed at three switches - but the autopilot had beaten them to it. The jet gasped as its liquid food was suddenly cut off from it; damper plates quenched the seeking neutrons in the atomic pile - and the Stone was in free orbit, falling toward Earth in a sudden, aching silence broken only by the whispering of the airconditioner.

Roger Stone reswallowed his stomach, "Power room!" he rasped. "Report!"

He could hear Hazel sighing heavily. "Okay, son," she said feebly, "but mind that top step - it's a dilly!"

"Cas, call the port. Get a doppler check."

"Aye aye, sir." Castor called the radar & doppler station at Leyport. The Rolling Stone had all the usual radar and piloting instruments but a spaceship cannot possibly carry equipment of the size and accuracy of those mounted as pilot aids at all ports and satellite stations. "Rolling Stone to Luna Pilot - come in, Luna Pilot." While he called he was warming up their own radar and doppler-radar, preparing to check the performance of their own instruments against the land-based standards. He did this without being told, it being a co-pilot's routine duty.

"Luna Pilot to Rolling Stone."

"Rolling Stone to Luna Pilot - request range, bearing and separation rate, and flight plan deviations, today's flight fourteen - plan as field; no variations."

"We're on you. Stand by to record."

"Standing by," answered Castor and flipped the switch on the recorder. They were still so close to the Moon that the speed-of-light lag in transmission was unnoticeable.

A bored voice read off the reference time to the nearest half second, gave the double co-ordinates of their bearing in terms of system standard - corrected back to where the Moon had been at their blast-off - then gave their speed and distance relative to Luna with those figures also corrected back to where the Moon had been. The corrections were comparatively small since the Moon ambles along at less than two-thirds of a mile per second, but the corrections were utterly necessary. A pilot who disregarded them would find himself fetching up thousands or even millions of miles from his destination.

The operator added, "Deviation from flight plan negligible. A very pretty departure, Rolling Stone."

Castor thanked him and signed off. "In the groove, Dad!"

"Good. Did you get our own readings?"

"Yes, sir. About seven seconds later than theirs."

"Okay. Run 'em back on the flight line and apply the vectors. I want a check." He looked more closely at his son; Castor's complexion was a delicate chartreuse. "Say, didn't you take your pills?"

"Uh, yes, sir. It always hits me this way at first. I'll be all right."

"You look like a week-old corpse."

"You don't look so hot yourself, Dad."

"I don't feel so hot, just between us. Can you work that prob, or do you want to sack in for a while?"

"Sure I can!"

"Well... mind your decimal places."

"Aye aye, Captain."

"I'm going aft." He started to unstrap, saying into the inter­com as he did so, "All hands, unstrap at will. Power room, secure the pile and lock your board."

Hazel answered, "I heard the flight report, Skipper. Power room secured."

"Don't anticipate my orders, Hazel - unless you want to walk back."

She answered, "I expressed myself poorly, Captain. What I mean to say is, we are now securing the power room, as per your orders, sir. There - it's done. Power room secured!"

"Very well, Chief." He smiled grimly, having noted by the tell tales on his own board that the first report was the correct one; she had secured as soon as she had known they were in the groove. Just as he had feared: playing skipper to a crew of rugged individualists was not going to be a picnic. He grasped the centre stanchion, twisted around so that he faced aft and floated through the hatch into the living quarters.

He wiggled into the bunkroom and checked himself by a handhold. His wife, daughter, and least child were all un­strapped. Dr. Stone was manipulating the child's chest and stomach. He could not see just what she was doing but it was evident that Lowell had become violently nauseated - Meade, glassy-eyed herself, was steadying herself with one hand and trying to clean up the mess with the other. The boy was still unconscious.

Roger Stone felt suddenly worse himself. "Good grief!" His wife looked over her shoulder. "Get my injection kit," she ordered. "In the locker behind you. I've got to give him the antidote and get him awake. He keeps trying to swallow his tongue."

He gulped. "Yes, dear, Which antidote?"

"Neocaffeine - one c.c. Move!"

He found the case, loaded the injector, handed it to Dr. Stone. She pressed it against the child's side. "What else can I do?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"Is he in any danger?"

"Not while I have an eye on him. Now get out and ask Hazel to come here."

"Yes, dear. Right away." He swam on aft, found his mother sitting in midair, looking pleased with herself. Pollux was still loosely secured to his control couch. "Everything all right back here?" he asked.

"Sure. Why not? Except my assistant, maybe. I believe he wants off at the next stop."

Pollux growled. "I'm feeling okay. Quit riding me."

Roger Stone said, "Edith could use your help, Mother. Buster has thrown up all over the bunkroom."

"Why, the little devil! He didn't have a thing to eat today; I rode herd on him myself."

"You must have let him out of your sight for a few minutes, from the evidence. Better go give Edith a hand."

"To hear is to obey, Master." She kicked one heel against the bulkhead behind her and zipped out the hatch. Roger turned to his son.

"How's it going?"

"I'll be all right in a couple of hours. It's just one of those things you have to go through with, like brushing your teeth."

"Check. I'd like to rent a small planet myself. Have you written up the engineering log?"

"Not yet."

"Do so. It will take your mind off your stomach." Roger Stone went forward again and looked into the bunkroom. Lowell was awake and crying; Edith had him sheeted to a bunk to give him a feeling of pressure and stability.

The child wailed, "Mama! Make it hold still"

" Shush, dear. You're all right. Mother is here,"

"I want to go home!"

She did not answer but caressed his forehead. Roger Stone backed hastily out and pulled himself forward.

By supper time all hands except Lowell were over the effects of free fall - a sensation exactly like stepping off into an open elevator shaft in the dark. Nevertheless no one wanted much to eat; Dr. Stone limited the menu to a clear soup, crackers, and stewed dried apricots. Ice cream was available but there were no takers.

Except for the baby none of them had any reason to expect more than minor and temporary discomfort from the change from planet-surface weight to the endless falling of free orbit. Their stomachs and the semicircular canals of their ears had been through the ordeal before; they were inured to it, salted.

Lowell was not used to it; his physical being rebelled against it, nor was he old enough to meet it calmly and without fear. He cried and made himself worse, alternating that with gagging and choking. Hazel and Meade took turns trying to quiet him. Meade finished her skimpy dinner and relieved the watch; when Hazel came into the control room where they were eating Roger Stone said, "How is he now?"

Hazel shrugged. "I tried to get him to play chess with me. He spat in my face."

"He must be getting better."

"Not so you could notice it."

Castor said, "Gee whiz, Mother, can't you dope him up till he gets his balance?"

"No," answered Dr. Stone, "I'm giving him the highest dosage now that his body mass will tolerate."

"How long do you think it will take him to snap out of it?" asked her husband.

"I can't make a prediction. Ordinarily children adapt more readily than adults, as you know, dear - but we know also that some people never do adapt. They simply are constitutionally unable to go out into space."

Pollux let his jaw sag. "You mean Buster is a natural-born groundhog?" He made the word sound like both a crippling disability and a disgrace.

"Pipe down," his father said sharply.

"I mean nothing of the sort," his mother said crisply. "Lowell is having a bad time but he may adjust very soon."

There was glum silence for some minutes. Pollux refilled his soup bag, got himself some crackers, and eased back to his perch with one leg hooked around a stanchion. He glanced at Castor; the two engaged in a conversation that consisted entirely of facial expressions and shrugs. Their father looked at them and looked away; the twins often talked to each other that way; the code - if it was a code - could not be read by anyone else. He turned to his wife. "Edith, do you honestly think there is a chance that Lowell may not adjust?"

"A chance, of course." She did not elaborate, nor did she need to. Spacesickness like seasickness does not itself kill, but starva­tion and exhaustion do.

Castor whistled. "A fine time to find it out, after it's too late. We're akeady in orbit for Mars."

Hazel said sharply. "You know better than that, Castor."

"Huh?"

"Of course, dopy," his twin answered. "We'll have to tack back.' :1

"Oh." Castor frowned. "I forgot for the moment that this was a two-legged jump." He sighed. "Well, that's that. I guess we go back." There was one point and one only at which they could decide to return to the Moon. They were falling now toward Earth in a conventional 'S-orbit" practically a straight line. They would pass very close to Earth in an hyperboloid at better than five miles per second, Earth relative. To continue to Mars they planned to increase this speed by firing the jet at the point of closest approach, falling thereby into an ellipsoid, relative to the Sun, which would let them fall to a rendezvous with Mars. They could reverse this maneuver, check their plunging progress by firing the jet against their motion and thereby force the Stone into an ellipsoid relative to Earth, a curve which, if correctly calculated, would take them back to Luna, back home before their baby brother could starve or wear himself out with retching. "Yep, that's that," agreed Pollux. He suddenly grinned. "Anybody want to buy a load of bicycles? Cheap?"

"Don't be in too big a hurry to liquidate," his father told him, "but we appreciate your attitude. Edith, what do you think?"

"I say we mustn't take any chances," announced Hazel. "That baby is sick."

Dr. Stone hesitated: "Roger, how long is it to perigee?"

He glanced at his control board. "About thirty-five hours."

"Why don't you prepare both maneuvers? Then we will not have to decide until it's time to turn ship."

"That makes sense, Hazel, you and Castor work the homing problem; Pol and I will work the Mars vector. First approxi­mations only; we'll correct when we're closer. Everyone work independently, then we'll swap and check. Mind your deci­mals!"

"You mind yours." Hazel answered.

Castor gave his father a sly grin. "You picked the easy one, eh, Dad?"

His father looked at him. "Is it too hard for you? Do you want to swap?"

"Oh, no, Sir! I can do it."

"Then get on with it - and bear in mind you are a crew member in space."

"Aye aye, sir."

He had in fact 'picked the easy one'; the basic tack-around-Earth-for-Mars problem had been solved by the big computers of Luna Pilot Station before they blasted off. To be sure, Luna Pilot's answer would have to be revised to fit the inevitable errors, or deviations from flight plan, that would show up when they reached perigee rounding Earth - they might be too high, too low, too fast, too slow, or headed somewhat differently from the theoretical curve which had bem computed for them. In fact they could be sure to be wrong in all three factors; the tiniest of errors at blast-off had a quarter of a million miles in which to multiply.

But nothing could be done to compute the corrections for those errors for the next fifteen or twenty hours; the deviations had to be allowed to grow before they could be measured accurately.

But the blast back to shape an ellipsoid home to Luna was a brand-new, unpremeditated problem. Captain Stone had not refused it out of laziness; he intended to do both problems but had kept his intention to himself. In the meantime he had another worry; strung out behind him were several more ships, all headed for Mars. For the next several days there would be frequent departures from the Moon, all ships taking advantage of the one favorable period in every twenty-six months when the passage to Mars was relatively 'cheap', i.e., when the minimum-fuel ellipse tangent to both planet's orbits would actually make rendezvous with Mars rather than arrive foolishly at some totally untenanted part of Mars' orbit. Except for military vessels and super expensive passenger-ships, all traffic for Mars left at this one time.

During the four-day period bracketing the ideal instant of departure ships leaving Leyport paid a fancy premium for the privilege over and above the standard service fee. Only a large ship could afford such a fee; the saving in cost of single-H reactive mass had to be greater than the fee. The Rolling Stone had departed just before the premium charge went into effect; consequently she had trailing her like beads on a string a round dozen of ships, all headed down to Earth, to tack around her toward Mars.

If the Rolling Stone vectored back and shaped course for Luna rather than Mars, there was a possibility of traffic trouble.

Collisions between spaceships are almost unheard of; space is very large and ships are very tiny. But they are possible, particularly when many ships are doing much the same thing at the same time ia the same region of space. Spacemen won't forget the Rising Star and the patrol vessel Trygve Lie - four hundred and seven dead, no survivors.

Ships for Mars would be departing Luna for the next three days and more; the Rolling Stone, in rounding Earth and head­ing back to Luna (toward where Luna would be on her arrival) would cut diagonally across their paths. Besides these hazards, there were Earth's three radio-satellites and her satellite space station; each ship's flight plan, as approved by Luna Pilot Station, took into consideration these four orbits, but the possible emergency maneuver of the Rolling Stone had had no such safety check. Roger Stone mentally chewed his nails at the possibility that Traffic Control might refuse permission for the Rolling Stone to change its approved flight plan - which they would do if there was the slightest possibility of collision, sick child or no.

And Captain Stone would ignore their refusal, risk collision and take his child home - there to lose his pilot's license certainly and to face a stiff sentence from the Admiralty court possibly.

Besides the space station and the radio satellites there were the robot atom-bomb peace rockets of the Patrol, circling the Earth from pole to pole, but it was most unlikely that the Rolling Stone's path would intersect one of their orbits; they moved just outside the atmosphere, lower than a spaceship was allowed to go other than in landing, whereas in order to tack the Rolling Stone would necessarily go inside the orbits of the radio satellites and that of the space station wait a minute - Roger Stone thought over that last idea. Would it be possible to match in with the space station instead of going back to Luna?

If he could, he could get Lowell back to weight a couple of days sooner - in the spinning part of the space station!

The ballistic computer was not in use; Castor and Hazel were still in the tedious process of setting up their problems. Captain Stone moved to it and started making a rough set-up directly on the computer itself, ignoring the niceties of ballistics, simply asking the machine, "Can this, or can this not, be done?"

Half an hour later he gave up, let his shoulders sag. Oh, yes, he could match in with the space station's orbit - but at best only at a point almost a hundred degrees away from the station. Even the most lavish expenditure of reaction mass would not permit him to reach the station itself.

He cleared the computer almost violently. Hazel glanced toward him. "What's eating you, son?"

"I thought we might make port at the station. We can't."

"I could have told you that"

He did not answer but went aft. Lowell, he found, was as sick as ever.

Earth was shouldering into the starboard port, great and round and lovely; they were approaching her rapidly, less than ten hours from the critical point at which they must maneuver, one way or the other. Hazel's emergency flight plan, checked and rechecked by the Captain, had been radioed to Traffic Con­trol. They were all resigned to a return to Luna; nevertheless Pollux was, with the help of Quito Pilot, Ecuador, checking their deviations from the original flight plan and setting up the problem of preparing a final ballistic for Mars.

Dr. Stone came into the control room, poised near the hatch, caught her husband's eye and beckoned him to come with her.

He floated after her into their stateroom. "What is it?" he asked. "Is Lowell worse?"

"No, he's better."

"Eh?"

"Dear, I don't think he was spacesick at all."

"What's that?"

"Oh, a little bit, perhaps. But I think his symptoms were largely allergy; I think he is sensitive to the sedative."

"Huh? I never heard of anyone being sensitive to that stuff before."

"Neither have I, but there can always be a first time I withdrew the drug several hours ago since it did not seem to help him. His symptoms eased off gradually and his pulse is better now."

"Is he okay? Is it. safe to go on to Mars?"

"Too early to say. I'd like to keep him under observation another day or two."

"But - Edith, you know that's impossible. I've got to maneu­ver." He was wretched from strain and lack of sleep; neither had slept since blast-off more than twenty-four hours earlier.

"Yes, I know. Give me thirty minutes warning before you must have an answer. I'll decide then."

"Okay. I'm sorry I snapped at you."

"Dear Roger!"

Before they were ready to 'round the corner' on their swing past Earth the child was much better. His mother kept him under a light hypnotic for several hours; when he woke from it he demanded food. She tried letting him have a few mouth­fuls of custard; he choked on the first bite but that was simply mechanical trouble with no gravity - on the second bite he learned how to swallow and kept it down.

He kept several more down and was still insisting that he was starved when she made him stop. Then he demanded to be untied from the couch. His mother gave in on this but sent for Meade to keep him under control and in the bunk-room. She pulled herself forward and found her husband. Hazel and Castor were at the computer; Castor was reading off to her a problem program while she punched the keys; Pollux was taking a doppler reading on Earth. Edith drew Roger Stone away from them and whispered, "Dear, I guess we can relax. He has eaten - and he didn't get sick."

"Are you sure? I wouldn't want to take even a slight chance."

She shrugged. "How can I be sure? I'm a doctor, not a fortune-teller."

"What's your decision?"

She frowned, "I would say to go on to Mars."

"It's just as well." He sighed. "Traffic turned down my alternate flight plan. I was just coming back to tell you."

"Then we have no choice."

"You know better than that. I'd rather tell it to the judge than read the burial service. But I have one more card up my sleeve."

She looked her query; he went on. "The War God is less than ten thousand miles behind us. If necessary, by using our mass margin, in less than a week I could match with her and you and the baby could transfer. She's a "tumbling. pigeon" since they refitted her - anything from Luna-surface to a full gravity."

"I hadn't thought of that. Well, I don't think it will be neces­sary but it's a comfort to know that there is help close by." She frowned. "I would not like to leave you and the children to shift for yourselves - and besides, it's risky to use your margin; you may need it badly when we approach Mars."

"Not if we handle the ship properly. Don't you worry; Hazel and I will get it there if we have to get out and push."

Pollux had stopped what he was doing and had been trying to overhear his parents' conversation. He was unsuccessful; they had had too many years' practice in keeping the kids from hearing. But he could see their intent expressions and the occa­sional frowns; he signaled his twin.

Castor said, "Hold it, Hazel. Time out to scratch. What goes, Pol?"

"'Now is the time for all good men"." He nodded toward their parents.

"Right. I'll do the talking." They moved aft.

Roger Stone looked at them and frowned. "What is it, boys? We're busy."

"Yes, sir. But this seems like a salubrious time to make an announcement."

"Yes?"

"Pol and I vote to go back home.

"Huh?"

"We figure that there's no percentage in taking a chance with Buster."

Pol added, "Sure, he's a brat, but look how much you've got invested in him."

"If he died on us," Castor went on, "it would spoil all the fun."

"And even if he didn't, who wants to clean up after him for weeks on end?"

"Right," agreed Pol. "Nobody likes to play room steward to a sick groundhog."

"And if he did die, the rest of you would blame us for the rest of our lives."

"Longer than that," Pol added.

"Don't worry about that "negat" from Traffic. Hazel and I are working out a skew path that will let us miss the Queen Mary ,with minutes to spare - seconds anyhow. Course it may scare em a little."

"Quiet!" said Captain Stone. "One at a time - Castor, let me get this straight: do I understand that you and your brother are sufficiently concerned about your younger brother's welfare that you want to return to Luna in any case?"

"Yes, sir."

"Even if your mother decides that it is safe for him to continue?"

"Yes, sir. We talked it over. Even if he's looking pretty good now, he was one sick pup and anybody that sick might not make it to Mars. It's a long haul. We don't want to risk it."

Hazel had come aft and listened; now she said, "Nobility ill-becomes you, Cas. You were more convincing with the other routine."

"You butt out of this, Mother. Pol?"

"Cas told you. Shucks, we can make other trips"

Roger Stone looked at his sons. "I must say," he said slowly, "that it is surprising and gratifying to find so much family soli­darity in this aggregation of individualists. Your mother and I will remember it with pride. But I am glad to say that it is unnecessary. We will continue for Mars."

Hazel scowled at him. "Roger, did you bump your head on the take-off? This is no time to take a chance; we take the kid back to Luna. I've talked with the boys and they mean it. So do I."

Castor said, "Dad, if you're afraid of that skew orbit, I'll pilot. I know-"

"Silence!" When he got it he went on as if to himself, "It says right here in the book to give orders, not explanations, and never to let them be argued. So help me, I'm going to run a taut ship if I have to put my own mother in irons." He raised his voice. "All hands! Prepare for maneuvering. Departure for Mars, gravity-well procedure."

Edith Stone said softly to Hazel, "The baby is all right. Mother. I'm sure." Then she turned to her sons. "Castor, Pollux - come here, dears."

"But Dad said -"

"I know. Come here first." She kissed each of them and said, "Now man your stations."

Mead appeared at the hatch, towing Lowell behind her like a toy balloon. He seemed cheerful and his face was cheerfully smeared with chocolate. "What's all the racket about?" she demanded. "You not only woke us; you must be disturbing people three ships behind."