  Young Lieutenant Rob Allison rode the escalator down the side of the space ship to the ground. His heartbeat had increased its tempo since he had been ordered from Earth to report to Space Command headquarters on Luna. There had been palpable unrest throughout Earth for several weeks now. No one seemed to know just what it was, but it was frightfully real—that, everyone would admit. And Rob had an uneasy feeling that his trip to Luna was somehow connected with the mystery. “Have a good ride, sir?” a steward at ground level asked the youth. “Well enough,” Rob said. Rob had not yet gotten used to being called “Sir.” It made him feel older—an experienced spaceman—not his mere nineteen years of age. More than that, it gave him a false sense of importance. The steward saw before him a tall, husky fellow who filled his space suit well. He saw a young man who carried himself confidently, yet in no way pretentiously, despite his unofficial nickname of “the Space Command’s youngest hero.” Rob’s eyes roved about looking for the jeep which General Forester had said would be here to meet him. He glimpsed the distant Lunar panorama which was the scene of his first interplanetary adventure some years before. He had visited all the planets or their moons since then. There had been perils, defeats, triumphs. It amazed him that he was still alive after it all. Beyond the gaunt stone buildings of the colony, the serrated tops of the Lunary Appenines pricked the black sky where stars almost too many to comprehend lay scattered like self-luminous gems. “Lieutenant Allison!” came a voice from across the drifts of pumice. “Over here!” Rob approached the jeep, jogging along with the ease of an elf’s tread in Luna’s light gravity. Rob recognized a circlet of rockets on the driver’s plastic helmet and was both surprised and flattered. “General Forester!” he said over his suit radio. He saw the officer’s grin within the shadows of his headgear. “You’re just about the most important person in the world now, Rob,” General Forester said, “and so I thought I’d come for you personally.” His narrow brown mustache thinned to a pencil line as he continued to smile welcomingly. Rob felt a disturbing jolt within him as he heard the general’s words. What significance lay behind this remark? “I’m flattered, sir,” Rob said. “You shouldn’t be,” the general said brusquely, in a strange reversal of manner. It was odd how quickly his sunny expression became grim. “I’m afraid we’re more interested in you for what you can do for us—and Earth—than in your personality.” Rob felt the uneasy tightening of the noose of suspense. He felt suddenly naked and alone, his confidence shaky. He wanted to ask why he had been chosen to take on an apparently enormous task. The general anticipated him. “We picked you, Rob, for this biggest of all jobs because you’ve been through all the terror and suspense that the project might entail. Your reputation for courage has caught up with you, Rob, and we’re going to use it for all it’s worth!” Rob felt his pulse throbbing in his temples as the jeep scurried over the sand dunes toward Space Command headquarters. While his heart could scarcely contain his excitement, his mind was equally frantic for facts. “What is the job, sir?” he asked quietly. “You’ve noticed, of course, the suppressed terror of the people back home in the past weeks,” the general said. “They know something big is wrong, that their very lives are being menaced. How they found out I don’t know, because the strictest censorship has been held. Maybe it’s a sort of telepathic hysteria that can’t be censored. At any rate it’s there, and there’s already been trouble from it. The Command at home has been getting crank letters demanding that we tell the people what is wrong. This kind of thing can lead to something bad.” “Then something is wrong?” Rob ventured, watching the officer expertly avoid a treacherous crack in the frost-riven ground. The general’s face became haggard, and there was a trace of terror in his own eyes. “There is. Something even worse than the people must suspect.” Rob shuddered. All of a sudden the minus-200-degree temperature outside his space suit seemed to have penetrated inside. He checked the heater and found that it was all right. No, this was a mental chill. Next came the inevitable question, “What is this—thing?” “You and your crew will be sworn to strictest secrecy before you blast off from Luna,” General Forester said. “That pledge of secrecy for you begins at this instant. If the people back home got even an inkling of what the trouble is, there would be widespread panic.” “You have my word, sir,” Rob said. That pledge of secrecy for you begins at this instant. There followed an electric silence for several moments. It was as if the general himself were rallying courage. “There is a giant radioactive cloud approaching the solar system from outer space at a terrific speed. The cloud covers an area roughly as big as Jupiter. Scientists have been plotting its trajectory with electronic instruments for a long time, and there is no doubt but that it will collide with the system if nothing is done about it. Life, of course, would be wiped out completely.” Rob felt the horror of the statement clear to the marrow of his bones. It left him shaking and numb. The general noticed the effect on him. “That’s the way it left me when I first heard about it,” he admitted. “If it affects us two, who are reasonably adjusted to the terrors of space, how do you think it would affect ordinary persons?” After the shock had lessened somewhat, Rob was able to speak. “But you do have a weapon against this cloud?” he said hopefully. “We hope we have,” General Forester replied. “It’s called Operation Big Boy.” There was no more time for discussion. The jeep topped a rise, just below which lay the hub of buildings making up the Space Command. Rob suffered further agony of suspense as they parked and glided over the sands to the general’s office in the main building. Rob was glad to get out of his space suit, for he had been in a cold sweat ever since he had heard the first sobering words about the cosmic terror. Rob and the general locked themselves in the privacy of the latter’s quarters. “The appearance of the R-cloud, as we call it, has necessitated using our topmost military weapon,” General Forester resumed. “You and no one else except the World Security Commission has known that the Space Command has had for some time a stockpile of cosmic-ray bombs which could literally blow Earth apart. You and your crew will carry a set of these bombs and try to scatter the mass so that it won’t penetrate the solar system. But of course there’s no assurance that the bombs can do this.” Rob heaved a deep sigh. He knew at last what was in store for him, but this knowledge held little satisfaction. The things spoken between him and the general in the few minutes they had been together had been staggering in concept. It was hard for him to realize that he was part of such a colossal scheme. It was more like a dream. “Naturally you and your crew will run considerable risk,” General Forester said. “I’ve been told to give you the refusal of the job if you feel that you cannot go through with it. But I pray that you’ll give it considerable thought before you turn it down. I don’t know of a better man in the service to trust with the future of humanity.” The future of humanity. Dependent upon him, an insignificant one of several billions who populated Earth! The idea nearly bowled Rob over. Yet he found himself agreeing to take on the task. He spoke quickly lest he wait too long and find himself withdrawing. General Forester led him out of the building through a connecting tunnel to a plastic-domed hangar. Here Rob saw a little hundred-foot X-500 Cetus fighter rocket crawling with a ground crew that was obviously readying it for flight. It was quickly evident to Rob that the Cetus was a specially adapted make, for it was unusually deep-bodied. “This is your ship,” the general explained. “It’s a model that was built especially to carry the C-bomb. There’s one room for a crew of six. The rest of the bulk is for shielding against radiation from the bomb.” Rob could readily appreciate this latter fact, knowing that cosmic-ray energy was many times more powerful than nuclear fission. “Is the crew on Luna now, sir?” Rob asked. “They’ll arrive on the ferry from the space station later today,” the other replied. “Let’s go back.” As they retraced their way through the tunnel, the general filled in more facts. “We had hoped to let the R-cloud approach closer before launching an attack, but the pressure of public suspicion makes it necessary to get on the job right away. You’ll carry the X-500 to Titan where you’ll pick up the bombs from our Command unit there and get your final instructions. After that, you’re on your own.” Six men battling the greatest pack of energy ever faced by mankind! It was almost like tempting fate, Rob thought; like facing a mechanized army with only a club for a weapon. But Rob had confidence in the scientists of this day and their devastating brain child, the cosmic ray bomb. Rob met his crew in the general’s office. He silently studied the young men, selected as the best in their field, who would be entrusted with the lives of three billion people. General Forester introduced them: Mort Haines, the chubby, burr-headed mechanic; tall, thin-faced Lieutenant Fox, chief pilot; navigator-radiation officer Lieutenant Swenson—big, blond and Swedish; small, prematurely balding Goode, the medic; and lastly the youngest of them all, the one who made the greatest impression on Rob. His name was Clay Gerard, a “sputter” or graduated space cadet without a rating, who would fill in on odd jobs which did not fall under the province of his more experienced companions. Clay extended a big palm to Rob. His grip crushed Rob’s hand. Rob looked into his expressive blue eyes and thought he detected some amusement in them. Rob marveled at the boy’s muscle-padded shoulders, thinking how well he would fit into somebody’s football backfield. Then it came to him suddenly that Clay had done just that, and exceptionally well. “Aren’t you last season’s triple-threat star at Space Academy?” Rob asked. “That’s me,” Clay answered. “I hear you ran your opponents ragged, Clay,” Rob said. “I hope you help us take care of our present enemy the same way.” “I’ll do my part,” Clay said. “I don’t like to blow my own horn, but I was champ in every sport I entered. That ought to qualify me for this team, shouldn’t it?” His lips twisted in a bantering grin. General Forester broke in. “Please observe service courtesy, Cadet Gerard, and address Lieutenant Allison as ‘sir.’” “Yes, sir,” Clay replied. He looked at Rob. “You and I must be about the same age—sir.” The subtly prolonged final word did not escape Rob. Something warned him that he might have a mildly rebellious spirit in his crew. “I believe so,” Rob returned, “and I’m sure both of us will act our ages on this project. The future of our planet depends on it.” “I know, sir,” Clay answered with unexpected soberness that made Rob hope he had misjudged him. The crew was briefed in detail on the facts of Operation Big Boy from the moment they would depart from Luna to the final act of guiding the last cosmic missile into their antagonist. After this, the crew was dismissed to attend to their final affairs and get some hours of rest. Later, Rob heard that a girl by the name of Gerard was working in the communications office, and he went over to see if she were any kin to Clay. Clay had left before he had heard her name spoken, so he couldn’t find out from him. He found auburn-topped Dulcie Gerard at the transspace radio switchboard handling a communication between a lonely doctor on Mars and his wife back on Earth. When it was over, she switched off and turned to Rob with tears in her brown eyes. “Can I help you?” she asked. “You’re crying,” Rob said. She smiled prettily. “It was that conversation I had on the board. It touched me, the way they talked.” Suddenly the girl stared at him so intently that he found himself blushing. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but aren’t you Lieutenant Allison?” “Guilty,” he said. “I’ve heard of all the wonderful things you’ve done,” Dulcie went on, “but I never thought I’d meet you in person.” Rob shuffled his feet in embarrassment and decided to get down to business. “The information clerk down the hall told me you’re Dulcie Gerard,” he said, “and I wondered if Clay Gerard is your brother?” At the mention of the name, her face took on a softened, somewhat tragic expression. “I don’t know whether he’s my brother or son, the way I’ve been looking after him since our folks died a few years ago.” She smiled wryly. “We’re close to the same age, but Clay seems to have a strong feeling for family ties. He’s not home much, but he likes to have a home to come to when he’s tired or just wants to and I’ve tried to provide it for him.” “I just met your brother today, but somehow he didn’t impress me as being that way,” Rob said. “He gives me the impression of being, well—completely independent.” “Don’t be so polite, lieutenant. Clay’s attitude is painfully superior, but of course I love him in spite of his faults. He’s such a sweet guy otherwise.” Her eyes then began to glow with a deep fear. “Just the same, I’m scared to death about him. Clay is like a powder keg, and some day somebody’s going to light his fuse. He’s going to blow right up and he’ll be in a lot of trouble.” Rob couldn’t answer because he feared she spoke the truth. Clay Gerard was heading for a fall. Even in this short time, he had detected it. “What am I going to do, lieutenant?” she asked helplessly. Rob wished he had an answer for her, because already he had begun to admire this valiant young person. But once again he had no answer, and he told her so. “Of course you wouldn’t know,” Dulcie said with a sympathetic smile. “He told me he was on your crew that’s leaving on a special mission today. Maybe since you’ve talked to me you’ll be able to understand him on the trip a little better anyway, lieutenant.” “I’ll try to do that, Miss Gerard,” Rob promised, “but I’m afraid it’ll be mostly up to Clay himself. I wish you’d talk to him and tell him how important it is that he make himself a part of the team on this voyage and not just a triple-threat star. I can’t tell you how vital it is for him to do this.” “It must be a terribly important flight,” the girl said. “The Space Command has been using its priority wave length more than ever in the past few days.” “Sorry, but I can’t give out any information,” Rob told her. “All Space Command flights are top secret, you know.” “I know. But a person can’t help wondering. I mean after all that panic that’s going on back on Earth—” It would never do for her to find out about Operation Big Boy, Rob thought worriedly, so he decided to end the conversation completely. He looked at his watch and said, “I’ve got to get back to my quarters now. I’m grateful for what you told me about your brother. If he co-operates with us, we’ll go halfway with him. Just remind him of that.” Dulcie looked at him intently. “Clay and I are the last of the Gerards, Lieutenant Allison. Our heritage has been a great one, and I guess that’s what’s helped to make Clay like he is. It’s because Clay is the last of our family to carry the name that I want so hard for him to make good.” “With a sister like you encouraging him, Miss Gerard, I don’t see how he can miss,” Rob told her gallantly and with an engaging smile. Her thoughtful gaze followed his figure until it disappeared around the far corner of the hall. A few hours afterward, the six-man crew of the Cetus X-500 was in the Space Command planetarium receiving final briefing from General Forester. The spacious dark room gleamed with thousands of lights, each one of them accurately depicting a prominent star in the heavens. General Forester pointed to a pulsing hazy spot against the starlight. “This is the R-cloud,” he said. “It’s really invisible, of course, but it’s made visible in here to show you its location. Its apparent direction is a few degrees south of the bright star Procyon in the constellation Canis Minor, almost on the plane of the ecliptic. Some of our scientists believe the cloud was an eruption from Procyon about fifteen years ago. Starting eleven light years away and traveling nearly at the speed of light, it’s just getting here.” “Am I right, sir,” Lieutenant Swenson said, “in assuming that there will be a colossal explosion when our bombs contact it?” “Undoubtedly,” the general assured him. “For that reason you will release the guided missiles when you reach the edge of the solar system. Unless the cloud changes course, which we have no reason to believe that it will do, the point of contact will be ten billion miles distant from the sun. Our scientists believe that is a safe enough distance from us. The flash will probably be of novalike proportions.” The general turned over to Rob and Lieutenant Swenson, the navigator, stacks of charts and tables that had been prepared showing the exact location of their ship and the cloud every minute of the way. It was a project requiring infinitely careful calculation, and Rob marveled at the mathematical ingenuity that had gone into the prodigious task. A miniature of the much larger electrometer which had first detected the menacing cloud had been installed in the rocket fighter so that Rob could continually keep it in his electronic sights, so to speak, at all times. “You will blast off at 1835, seventeen minutes from now,” the general concluded, “and cross planetary orbits under full atomic thrust to Titan. You will land at our base there, have a final mechanical check, and load your bombs. General Carmichael, the chief there, will advise you of any conditions that might have changed since you left here. After that you will blast off to your rendezvous with the R-cloud. Any questions?” There were none. Like himself, Rob noted that his companions seemed to be rather numbed by the enormity of their task. It seemed almost ridiculous that six persons could be expected to accomplish the incredible job plotted for them. “My sister said she talked to you,” Clay Gerard said to Rob when the Cetus X-500 had blasted off and her crew had unbuckled from acceleration couches. “That’s right, Clay,” Rob answered. “I’m afraid she was a little suspicious about our mission. Did she try to get any information out of you?” Rob knew he had touched off a spark as Clay’s handsome face colored. “Sis isn’t one to go prying into official business, lieutenant! That’s why she holds such a confidential job. Besides, I know enough about regulations to know what I can say and what I can’t!” “Don’t get out of line, Clay,” Rob reminded him. “I wasn’t implying that either one of you were violating rules.” “Sis is a swell guy, lieutenant. She’s one in a million.” “I’ve met her, Clay. I know she is.” Rob felt Clay’s eyes appraising him from head to foot. “You must’ve been quite a star yourself when you were in cadet school, lieutenant,” he said. “I mean, since you’ve been such a hero on different space expeditions.” “As a matter of fact, I couldn’t seem to do anything extra well, Clay,” Rob admitted. Rob thought Clay looked somewhat pleased to hear this. He wondered then if Clay had not set him up as his own personal rival who must be overcome as he had overcome all others he had vied with. Rob noticed Mort Haines, the stocky mechanic, watching them both closely from the other side of the compartment. Was that an expression of contempt he was directing at the strapping young “sputter”? He had observed such an expression once before when Clay had spoken of his accomplishments. Rob hoped desperately that there would be no personal conflicts. A clash of temperaments, even a trivial one, could endanger the operation. Rob resolved that if he did notice anyone getting out of line he would replace the offender on Titan with a new crew member. He could not afford to take any chances. Rob was first aware of trouble when he heard a commotion down the corridor. He sprang from the electroscope, where he had been checking on the movement of the R-cloud, and clicked rapidly down the aisle. He caught the scene in a graphic instant. Harry Goode’s small form was wedged courageously between the scrambling figures of Clay and Mort Haines. There had obviously been some blows thrown, for there was a cut on Mort’s face. “Let them go, Harry,” Rob said. He stepped back and the combatants cooled down. “What happened?” Rob asked. Mort sponged his cut with a handkerchief. “The big guy was bragging about the records he had set, sir. I was busy checking a rocket chamber that was heating up, and I told him to lose himself. He said he had as much right in here as I did and that I’d have to throw him out. I was starting to oblige him, sir, when you came in.” “Better get back to that rocket trouble, Mort,” Rob said. “Yes, sir,” Mort said and went back into the cramped quarters of the engine compartment. “Thanks, Harry,” Rob said to the medic, whose sparse fringe of hair had been disordered in the struggle. Rob took Clay into the corridor where they were alone. “Was Mort’s story true?” Rob asked. “I don’t like his use of the word ‘bragging,’” Clay protested. “We just happened to get to talking about sports and I told him about the track meet in 2002 when I set new records in the running broad jump and mile run. Then suddenly he springs up all red-faced, accusing me of bragging ever since he has known me. That got me hot then, and I guess one thing led to another.” Rob looked at him squarely. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to replace you on Titan, Clay,” he said quietly. The color drained out of the big fellow’s face. He was shocked. “Why—why?” he blurted. “Because I’m afraid your attitude is a danger to the success of the project,” Rob said. “My attitude?” Clay asked in surprise. “What attitude?” “Think about it awhile and I believe you’ll understand if you’re honest with yourself. If you can’t figure it out, my explaining won’t do much good.” As this sank in, Clay’s initial pallidness gave way to a red suffusion of anger. “I know what it is! You can’t stand the competition! You’re afraid the name of Gerard will steal the glory from the Allison reputation on this flight!” Just then there was an unexpected witness on the scene. Lieutenant Swenson was striding rapidly up the corridor. “I couldn’t help listening,” he said, “and I can’t help putting in my two cents!” He planted his stalwart body in front of Clay Gerard. “Lieutenant Allison is too much of a gentleman to give you the lesson you deserve, Gerard, so I’ll do it myself verbally—and physically too if you prefer.” “The idea of your name competing with his in reputation is laughable. He’s set records for unselfish service you’ll never touch. You’ve set your records for personal glory, but his were an outcome of risking his life to save his friends. And what Lieutenant Allison meant by your attitude was a polite way of saying you’re a troublemaker and an unmitigated braggart. Every word you speak is a challenge to someone. Tell me, have you ever lost a race?” “No, sir,” Clay returned meekly, under the shock of the officer’s blast. “Well, you’re losing this one. You’re not good enough for this team, Gerard, and you’re going to be put ashore on Titan. I can’t imagine a person who calls himself a spaceman and takes the oath of allegiance to duty letting petty interests take first place in an operation as important as this. I don’t believe you have realized yet that the future of life itself on Earth depends on the success of this flight.” For a moment Lieutenant Swenson seemed to have run out of steam as his big chest gasped for breath. Clay was so overcome he stood with lips trembling and eyes smarting. Rob suspected this was perhaps the first real dressing-down he had had in his life, something that probably his own father had never done. Clay Gerard said nothing in defense. Lieutenant Swenson turned to Rob. “I’m sorry Rob, but I couldn’t help it. When I heard him blast out at you—” Rob remained silent and Lieutenant Swenson walked off with some embarrassment. Just then the rocket fighter angled up and sent Rob and Clay rolling over against the wall of the corridor. Clay’s head thumped against the metal, and the blow appeared to daze him. Rob helped him up as the ship continued to rock. “Are you hurt?” Rob asked him. Clay shook his head vigorously. “I—I don’t think so.” Rob hastened to the engine room, some impulse telling him that the misbehaving rocket chamber might be behind the trouble. He found Mort in front of an opening in the floor, a frantic look on his face. “The rocket cylinder that was heating up has blown a leak!” he shouted above a deafening swooshing sound from below. “Can you repair it?” Rob asked. “The ship is practically out of control!” “Tell Lieutenant Fox to cut all jets and keep her even,” the mechanic said. “I’ll have to go down into the hold to plug the break-through so it’ll last until we reach Titan.” Rob leaned over the hold and felt hot air rushing up at him. It was dark and crowded with machinery down there. “I don’t see how you can work down there in all that heat.” Mort shrugged. “I’ll have to, or we may never land. If I’d checked it when I had that tangle with Cadet Gerard I might have saved the blowout.” Rob sensed someone behind him and turned to see Clay, who had followed him into the engine room. Rob saw a stark look on the cadet’s face as though the grave significance of his clash with Mort were suddenly made startlingly real to him. “Can I help?” Clay asked. “If you can, we’ll let you know,” Rob told him as he hurried from the room toward the pilot’s nest forward. After instructing Lieutenant Fox, Rob returned to the engine room. As though anxious to make himself useful, Clay was leaning over the hold into which Mort had disappeared, pointing a flashlight for him. The other crewmen, except for the pilot, were gathered around in a tense knot. By now, the ship had leveled off somewhat and the unevenness was less severe. “How is Mort coming?” Rob asked them. “He’s complaining of the heat, sir,” Harry said. “He’s liable to collapse down there.” Rob leaned over the hold. “How are you, Mort?” “I’m nearly through!” came a feeble reply. “He sounds weak,” Lieutenant Swenson said. “I wish one of us knew how to repair the damage,” Rob said. “We could give him relief.” He turned to Clay. “Let me have the light.” Rob shone the flashlight around the confining interior of the rocket hold. He could see the squatting figure of Mort in the far corner pressed against the huge glittering curve of the jet chamber. Minutes later, Mort had just announced that the job was completed when there was a burst of radiant light that filled the entire hold. An acrid, burning smell swirled into the room above. “Hand me that fire extinguisher!” Rob cried and began lowering himself. Someone thrust the CO2 extinguisher from its wall rack into his hand, and he disappeared into the smoky hold. Through the gray veil that choked the basement room, Rob could see growing lurid flames. He pointed the extinguisher full into the fire and saw white clouds of carbon dioxide suffocating the blaze. When he could see no more redness, Rob moved forward and tumbled along the floor for Mort. He retched and coughed from the smoke. He’d be needing help soon. His probing hands finally located Mort’s inert body and he began dragging it back toward the opening in the ceiling. A few steps away and under the hole he found Lieutenant Swenson waiting there to help. The navigator took the heavy weight from his arms and handed it up through the circular opening to the others. Then he turned to give help to Rob. When Rob had recovered sufficiently several minutes later, with no more than a tight chest and raw throat, he checked with Harry Goode, who had put Mort to bed as soon as he came out of the hold. “How is he, Harry?” Rob asked. The medic shook his head gravely. “He doesn’t look too good to me, sir,” he replied. “He’s got a lot of burns and he swallowed plenty of smoke. He’ll be a lucky guy if he pulls through.” “He knew this might happen when he took that welding torch down there,” Rob murmured. “But he knew the job had to be done.” He coughed. “Better let me check you over too, lieutenant,” Harry said. “You swallowed some smoke yourself.” “I’ll be all right,” Rob said. “I’ll have the space surgeon look at me on Titan, though.” Rob went back to join the others. When he told them the unfavorable news about Mort, a gloomy silence settled over the compartment. Mort had been well liked, having quickly become a friend to all except Clay Gerard. “I checked the hold when the smoke lifted,” Lieutenant Swenson said, breaking the oppressive stillness. “Mort’s torch must have touched off latent gases in the chamber. There’s some charred machinery down there but no real damage from the explosion. Fox said the ship’s moving all right again.” Clay seemed ashamed to gather here with the others. He was lingering in the corridor looking out the port. Rob had begun to feel sorry for the young fellow whose quarrel with Mort had led to such tragic results. Rob went out to join him. “Nearly time to take to landing couches,” Rob remarked as he saw the curved, mistbound world that was Titan. “Yes, sir,” Clay answered, without spirit. “Did you hear me tell the others about Mort’s condition?” Rob asked. Clay barely nodded. “If he dies, I will be the one who killed him.” “It’s not your fault that he was hurt,” Rob soothed. “He knew what he was getting into when he went down into the hold with the torch.” “But if we hadn’t fought he could have prevented the blowout,” Clay argued. “I heard him say it.” “If there’s to be any blame for the accident, it’ll rest with the inspection team back on Luna which should have found the weakened temper of the chamber. They have stress gauges to detect such things, and they should have found it, particularly on a ship whose mission is so important.” Clay smiled wanly. “I know you’re just trying to make me feel better, lieutenant. The truth of the matter is that I’m everything Lieutenant Swenson said I am. I know now what sort of unselfish records he said you’d made. It was just like the one Mort made when he went down into the hold, knowing the risk he was taking.” “I think, given time, you’ll make a good spaceman,” Rob said. Clay’s unhappy face studied the approaching world outside for several moments in silence until there came the pilot’s report of altitude and Rob knew it was time to strap down. Lieutenant Fox switched in the robot pilot that would make the landing and joined his companions on the row of degravity couches in another compartment. All buckled the plastic belts across their bodies and yielded themselves to the discomfort of swiftly cutting speed. As soon as the ship landed, Rob unbuckled and, with Harry Goode, hurried to the compartment where Mort had been placed. Harry took the injured man’s pulse and told Rob that it was weak. “We’ll get him to the infirmary immediately,” Rob said and went to the radio nook just off the pilot’s nest. He put through a call to the Space Command headquarters. “General Carmichael speaking,” came a firm, booming voice over the amplifier. “Come in, X-500.” “This is Lieutenant Allison, sir,” Rob spoke. “We’ve had an accident aboard and a man has been badly hurt. Will you send out a stretcher for him?” “Certainly,” came the reply. “What was the man’s duty?” “Mechanic 101, sir,” Rob answered. “We’ve got a replacement for him,” the general said. “While we’re on the subject of bad news, Allison, I’ll give you mine.” “What’s that, sir?” Rob asked anxiously. “Just that the people of Earth are closer than ever to panic stage,” said General Carmichael. “A switchboard operator on Luna half guessed our secret and when she telephoned someone on Earth the operators back there picked up the message. You won’t have much time for layover here, Allison. You’ll have to be off almost immediately so that we can report success of Operation Big Boy as soon as possible.” Rob suddenly went cold with dread and disappointment. Dulcie Gerard, whom he had considered one of the squarest persons he had ever met, had suddenly destroyed his faith in her completely. It made Rob wonder if making themselves unpopular wasn’t a confirmed Gerard trait. Some minutes later, Rob and his crewmates solemnly followed the stretcher bearers out of the ship. Through the plastic airtight case Rob could see the still-as-death figure of the burr-headed mechanic who had risked his life for his friends. The party trooped across the ice slick that lay between the X-500 and Space Command headquarters on Titan. General Carmichael met the group inside the air lock of the headquarters. His small, sharp eyes looked out from under thick gray brows at the identically dressed men before him, streams of condensed vapor rolling off their glossy suits. Rob pulled off his helmet and advanced. “I’m Allison, sir,” he said, offering his hand. The wiry general shook hands briskly. “Glad to meet you, Allison.” He frowned. “We’ve got a lot to do, so we may as well get started.” General Carmichael led them into his private office. “Your mechanic replacement will be over shortly,” the officer told them when they were seated. “His name is Olney. A good man. You’re lucky he was available. We’re kind of shorthanded here and really can’t spare anyone. None of us on the project thought your crew would have to be replaced at this final stage, but of course accidents can’t be avoided.” Rob glanced over at Clay Gerard. Rob thought he detected a flicker of hope in the youth’s eyes. Rob pondered deeply, wondering if he should go ahead with the replacement of Clay as he had said he would do. But it wouldn’t be easy to explain Clay to General Carmichael. Giving the appearance to Rob of being a strict old-timer, the chief officer did not look to be too understanding a person on a matter such as this. Then too, he had said he simply had no other men to spare. And yet Rob knew he must consider his other crewmen. If Clay were unreliable, what right had he to risk their lives just to give a mixed-up young fellow another chance? Rob didn’t know what to do, so he looked to his friends for advice. He resolved to act on their judgment, since they were older men. Rob caught Lieutenant Swenson’s eye. To his wordless inquiry, the navigator-radiation officer nodded. Lieutenant Fox did the same. The silent vote had given the impetuous Clay Gerard another chance, and for some reason Rob was glad that it had come out this way. Clay, who had been watching the other raptly, knew he had been reinstated, and he smiled his gratitude. General Carmichael handed each of them pencil-like tubes which he told them they would wear in their upper blouse pockets at all times during the flight. “These instruments record cosmic-ray radiation,” the general said. “As you know, a concentration of these rays will cause agonizing death. You will be the first crew ever to carry C-bombs on a mission because fortunately we’ve never had to use them before.” Less than an hour and a half later, the Cetus X-500 was ready to go. General Carmichael replaced the charts given Rob by General Forester with ones carrying figures for the accelerated moment of departure. Rob considered Bruce Olney a capable fill-in for the valiant Mort Haines, if looks were any criterion. He was a slender, straw blond, with intelligent eyes. He wore a miniature good-luck horse-shoe charm around his neck. A report from the infirmary showed that Mort Haines was still in serious condition. Rob saw Clay Gerard wince as he heard the news. Clay had been an exceedingly quiet individual since the accident to the mechanic, a different person entirely. His blatant self-confidence had been whittled down strikingly to a brooding reserve. When the crew of the X-500 was already in the ship and about to blast off, General Carmichael spoke his final disturbing speech over their radio, “I’ve just had another report from General Forester. The people are mobbing the White House demanding to know what it is that threatens their lives. The President doesn’t believe he can hold them off much longer.” The general’s tone became grimmer and more emotional as he concluded. “Operation Big Boy has got to be a success, Allison. There’s no two ways about it. I want the next message you send to give the good news that we will immediately broadcast throughout the system. Good luck and God be with you.” The six of them stared at one another soberly as the final words were spoken. The full enormity of their duty seemed to have struck them just now for the first time. Rob choked down the lump that pressed up into his throat. He took a full breath, readying himself, then gave his first command. “Blast-off couches,” he spoke quietly. “Prepare for launching.” When the roaring thunder of the blast-off was behind them and the rocket ship was grasping for the stars, Clay unbuckled his straps and turned to Rob. “I don’t believe Dulcie spread that report about our project, lieutenant,” he said. “She wouldn’t lose her head. Not her. She’s the calmest one in the family. Besides, she’s a—a—” “A Gerard?” Rob supplied, smiling faintly. Clay flushed. “I guess I haven’t really changed, have I?” he said bleakly. Rob’s brows furrowed. “I’d like to believe she didn’t do it too. But she’s the switchboard operator on Luna. She was on when we left. Who else could it have been?” “There still must have been someone else,” Clay persisted. “I know my sister too well. She would have known what would happen if she had spoken openly.” After setting the ship on course and under full rocket thrust, Rob and Lieutenant Swenson took time to study the elaborate firing mechanism in the navigator’s compartment that would send the bombs on their way a few hours from now. The electroscope which gave the reading on the R-cloud was located nearby. The gauge had shown consistent increase ever since the blast-off from Titan, indicating that they were drawing closer to the cosmic menace all the time. Within the next half hour tension had grown nearly to fever pitch, and yet there was still some time before the crucial zero hour. Rob found himself pacing restlessly about the navigation compartment. Lieutenant Swenson was rattling keys in his pocket, and Rob guessed that the others must also be similarly tightened up. Clay’s grinning face appeared at the door of the navigator’s cabin. The young cadet looked as calm as if he were on nothing more than a sight-seeing tour. He carried a tray on which sealed containers filled with lavender drinks were held by magnetism. “How about some palm-berry tea, gentlemen?” he said, setting the tray down on a magnetic table. Lieutenant Swenson smiled at the youth whom he had tongue-lashed on the previous flight. “You’re a lifesaver, Clay,” he said, picking up a container and beginning to suck on the connected straw. Palm-berry tea was a tasty beverage made from a dwarf Venusian swamp plant. It was a splendid sedative for “space nerves” and was always carried on long voyages. Under the harried circumstances of their blast-off, Rob had forgotten to have a supply of the tea put aboard. “Where did you get this?” Rob asked, taking a glass. “I knew it would come in handy, sir, when our stomachs got to knotting up,” Clay replied, “and so I got a box from the commissary just before coming aboard. Every crew has to have a cook, so I elected myself.” What a change from the self-centered young fellow he had first met, Rob thought. It was amazing that Clay Gerard, who before must be first in everything, was now satisfied at being what he called a “cook.” Clay distributed drinks to the rest of the crew. In a little while the epidemic of jitters had subsided almost completely. The minutes dragged on as the Cetus X-500 sped toward the bright star Procyon and the malignancy it was believed to have cast into space. When the crew spotted little Pluto plodding his lonely way through the empty deeps, they knew they were at the edge of the solar system. Another hour slipped by, and Lieutenant Swenson began lining up the target on the ground glass of his visi-screen table. The electroscope showed a high count, and the meters Rob and the radiation officer wore were also showing the mounting ray penetration from the “hot” weapons below the insulated flooring. “Only a few minutes to go, Rob,” Lieutenant Swenson said, studying his screen. “Better check your bomb release.” Rob checked and found it ready to go. His fingers itched to pull the lever. Sensing the approach of zero moment, the others drifted into the compartment. The robot pilot was driving the ship, and even Lieutenant Fox had come in. A dozen eyes pored silently over the screen table. Rob could count every tick of his watch. As the final minutes slipped away, he withdrew from the circle and went over to the bomb release. His hand was clammy as it palmed the smooth metal lever. “Steady, Rob,” Lieutenant Swenson spoke in a dramatic whisper. “A few minutes more—twelve—nine—” The compartment was silent as a tomb except for the soft throb of the ship’s power plant. Rob’s eyes drifted out the side port, and the stars out there dazzled him. “Three—two—one—fire!” Rob’s hand shoved forward. A muted rumble came from the floor. The noise swelled to a full-bodied roar. Then there was a banshee-like scream, and Rob knew the first bomb had flung itself into space. Lieutenant Swenson counted off five more seconds, and then Rob sent the second bomb on its way. This happened four more times, and each time Rob heard the final shriek as the missile cast itself into the vacuum. Rob didn’t hear the last bomb scream. His ears were ringing too much from the clamor of the previous ones. When it was all over, the purr of the power plant began dissipating the throbbing ring in Rob’s ears. He felt a tremendous relief now that the job was done. “How long before we’ll see the bursts?” he asked Lieutenant Swenson. “Not for hours,” was the reply. “Don’t forget, the missiles have a long way to go even though they’re speeding fast as blazes.” “Then we won’t know until then whether we’re successful?” Harry asked. “That’s right,” the navigator said. Rob checked the compartment cosmic-ray counter and his own pencil meter. “The radiation ought to start diminishing now that the load is gone,” he said. He was mistaken, he discovered later, when the ship had been swung about on its gyros and was heading homeward. The radiation had begun increasing, in fact. “I don’t understand it,” Rob said worriedly. “There’s nothing down below to make the radiation concentration rise. If this keeps up, we won’t last out the trip back.” Minutes later, as the concentration continued to build up, Rob knew there had to be something down there that was giving off the dangerous emanations. There was no other explanation that he could think of. “Bruce,” Rob said to the new mechanic, “can you check the bomb chamber without direct exposure?” The mechanic nodded. “There’s an antiradiation compartment up forward with an insulated window where I can take a look at it.” As Bruce left the room to check, Rob thought of something. “Did any of you hear the scream of that last bomb leaving the chamber?” he asked. When no one said anything, he continued, “I think I’ve got the answer. That last bomb must have jammed and didn’t come out.” His guess proved substantially correct. When Bruce returned, he reported that the heat of the bomb racing along its launching track had fused with part of the track so that both hung out of the bomb hatch and were being carried along with the ship. “We’re lucky those bombs were made to go off only on contact with the powerful omega rays in the R-cloud,” Rob spoke grimly, “or we’d be somewhere up in the Milky Way by now! We’ve got to get that bomb away from the ship before its radiation kills us.” “Dropping that bomb off isn’t going to be any sweet job,” Bruce commented. “But being the mechanic, it ought to fall to me.” “Hold on,” Rob cut in. “It’s a job any of us can do. It’ll take more courage than skill to cut the track off with an oxygen torch. By fastening the torch on the end of one of our emergency insulated rods, the operator can work at a distance with less chance of radiation exposure.” Lieutenant Swenson volunteered for the job, then Clay. Rob knew they had no time to wrangle over who was going to do it. Lieutenant Fox suggested drawing straws, and everyone agreed this was the fair method of deciding. Rob got six matches and broke one off shorter than the rest. Then he held them out for drawing. Bruce drew first and revealed a long one. Clay drew the next one and said simply, “You can stop drawing.” Rob was confident Clay could handle the job all right, for use of the acetylene torch was emphasized in cadet training. The youth was assisted into space gear, and the cutting torch was fastened to the end of the insulated rod. A crude shield was also fashioned from some of the insulation of the ship so as to further protect Clay from the bomb’s radiation. Even with all this, however, there was no small amount of risk. But Clay seemed happy to have drawn the job and went about his preparations lightheartedly. “Whatever you do,” was Rob’s final warning, “don’t get the fire from your torch onto the bomb or none of us will live to tell about it.” Clay left the ship through a side air lock, carrying his odd equipment and secured to the ship by a length of space chain so that he could not drift off into space. The eyes of the crew followed him through the port near the door as he crawled along the hull and downward toward the bomb rack. Then they lost sight of him. As they turned from the port, Harry Goode stooped and picked up a match from the floor. “This is Clay’s match,” he said, holding it up. “I saw him drop it.” It was a long match. “That tricky guy!” Rob muttered, with a wry grin. But what he really said in his mind was, “That great guy!” “He sure is anxious to make good,” Lieutenant Swenson said with admiration. Bruce led them toward the bow of the ship where they could see Clay work on the damaged bomb hatch. They moved along a narrow aisle lined with throbbing turbines and finally down an aluminum catwalk, at the bottom of which was the doubly insulated inspection chamber containing a large observation window that looked out onto the skin of the craft. The men crowded around the quartz port and watched Clay make his circuitous approach to the bomb hatch. Rob admired his skill in staying at the full taut length of his space chain so as to keep the maximum distance between himself and the “hot” chamber. Clay drifted like a feather in the weightless void, handling his equally light equipment with ease as he brought it into position. Rob imagined the vacuum out there to be fairly crackling with radioactivity and potential death rays. Clay had known they were there too. Yet he had gone out willingly, risking his life. Clay’s hand guided the burning instrument to within inches of the top of the bomb. Keeping his shield deftly in front of him, Clay lit his torch with his free hand, and the brilliant arc light burst like a nova on the eyes of the watchers. Clay next shoved the insulated rod, to which the torch was attached, toward the hatch. Slowly, cautiously, he moved the tool in closer. Only a short way below hung the gray cartridge that was the C-bomb, and the warped track that dipped out of the hatch and downward. Without a tremor, Clay’s hand guided the burning instrument to within inches of the top of the bomb. Rob shuddered to think what fury could be unleashed should the torch drift too close to the bomb. “That boy’s got what it takes,” Lieutenant Swenson murmured, his subdued voice sounding strangely loud in the deathly quiet. “He knows what’s at stake, but he’s not excited.” Clay got the flame against the track which was the only thing holding the C-bomb to the ship. Then he began the slow, labored process of severing the tough titanium alloy. The intense heat of the oxygen-fed torch turned the metal red hot. Then another danger came into the picture. “Can the heat from the track set off the bomb?” Harry put the danger into words. “It could,” Rob replied grimly. “It probably won’t, but it could.” During the suspenseful minutes that followed, Rob heard one sucking sound after another as those around him breathed irregularly. The hot touch of the men’s bodies against him betrayed their tension, their prayerful hopes. “Easy does it, Clay,” Rob thought. “Just a little more, and the track will be cut through.” The scarlet track and the blazing spot of the torch seemed to sear a hole right into Rob’s eyeballs. “How can Clay stand it this long himself?” he wondered. “His nerves must be of steel wire, his pupils of quartz lenses.” “The track is cut through!” someone finally exclaimed exultantly. Yet even with the worst part behind him, Clay didn’t get overconfident. As the bomb hung there weightless in space, Clay carefully withdrew the rod and the torch from its dangerous proximity to the bomb. Then he shook off the torch until it began drifting away from him, whence it would travel unchecked until it passed into the gravitation field of some celestial body. Next Clay gently brought the rod end against the bomb and shoved ever so lightly against it. Then it too began creeping away slowly into the black deeps, never to be seen again. “Whew!” Bruce gasped, and Rob could sense the relief of tension in those around him. Clay discarded the rod then but kept his shield in position as he made his way around the radioactive bomb hatch and back toward the air lock where he had left the ship. “He has discarded his hot equipment,” Lieutenant Swenson said as Clay moved out of their field of vision. “Just like a natural-born spaceman—he didn’t forget a thing.” When Clay had been helped into the ship with unnecessary care, each of his shipmates gave him an exuberant slap on the back and covered him with words of praise that fairly inundated him. Rob could see a grin a light year wide on the boy’s face and the trace of tears too as he realized he had been accepted as one of them again. Lieutenant Swenson summed it all up when he said, “You’re an all right guy, Clay.” Harry tore off Clay’s space suit, which was discarded, and began giving him all sorts of tests for radiation exposure. But Clay had protected himself well and was “clean.” The invisible peril within the ship began slacking off steadily, and later Lieutenant Swenson announced that the moment of the first bomb’s strike was at hand. The six gathered about the lookout refractor telescope in the ship’s stern which had carefully been directed upon the determined spot of impact at their rear. Rob was the first to see it through the prism eyepiece. Against the unchanging star patterns there was suddenly a brilliant flare like a ton of magnesium bursting into flame before his eyes. It blinded him for a moment with its radiance, even though there was a filter over the field lens. “We hit it!” he breathed thankfully and turned away so that the others might see the succeeding strikes. To make sure the destruction was complete, Lieutenant Swenson pored over the electroscope for a long time afterward and finally made a significant announcement. “Operation Big Boy is a success,” he said softly. “Not only has the cloud been broken up, but its remnants will pass far out of range of the solar system. Rob, you can radio the folk back home and give them the good news.” Rob lost no time in getting to the set and pouring out the happy tidings to General Forester on Luna. Later Rob learned of the repercussions: “The people in most quarters are stunned to know what could have happened to them,” the Space Command officer told him. “But all danger of panic is over. People are leaving the streets and going back to their homes and loved ones—and to church. It’s a grand victory, Rob, your greatest of all!” “It’s not my victory, general,” Rob replied. “It belongs equally to the men with me—Fox, Swenson, Olney, Goode, and Gerard. They’re great guys, sir, all of them.” Rob had started to mention Mort among the names and inquired how he was. “General Carmichael radioed that he has passed his crisis and is conscious,” was the gratifying answer. “The doctor says he’ll make it all right. Rob, Miss Gerard is anxious to talk to you and her brother.” Rob couldn’t understand how Dulcie could still be on the job if she had committed the serious indiscretion of exposing the secret flight. This prompted Rob to ask the general about it. The chief officer replied that it hadn’t been Dulcie Gerard but a temporary substitute who had taken over for her. As a matter of fact, Dulcie had been very angry at her friend for what she had done. Dulcie was allowed to talk to Rob, and the first thing she said was, “Can I speak to Clay?” “He’s coming down the hall,” Rob told her. “Tell me,” she said, “how did Clay do on his first assignment?” Rob paused a moment, then replied, “Somebody lit the fuse under him like you said, Dulcie. He didn’t blow into little pieces, though. The explosion knocked the worst out of him but left behind something fine and unselfish.” “I’m so glad I could cry!” the girl blurted. “Here he is now,” Rob said. “I’ll let him tell you himself.” Clay took the mike from Rob. Rob watched in admiration as Clay modestly told her the whole story, minimizing his own glory. Clay might be the last of the male Gerards, he thought, but he would certainly not be forgotten. As long as men had breath to speak, they would talk about the real hero of Operation Big Boy—and how he almost came to miss the trip altogether. |
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