Astounding Science Fiction, February 1952 (British Edition) — page 64: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

62 ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION There was no traffic at the moment, but his climb up the steel ladder to the meteor- ite-proofed control room touched off a bustle of activity. A tall boy with a white junior’s suit and a sharp face helped him through the manhole to the semicircular room, twisted the dial of Ray’s suit-radio to the special flight-control frequency, and said a respectful, “Hello, sir.” A dark boy, shorter than his mate and also white-suited, pushed the one comfortable swivel chair to the center of the plotting-table and stood at attention while Ray seated himself. But the boy was elbowed aside by the chair’s regular occupant, a tall man in a red suit like Ray’s. To this man, who took a stool beside him, Ray spoke. “Well, Al,” he said, “I see he didn’t come in at Number Two site over there.” “No,” said Al, “but he’s here. The tractor’s hauling him over from Number Four. Tl put him on C-Ring for blast-off, so he'll he right out there in front of us.” Ray was so intent on his son that he saw the tow-tractor’s dust fountain as it might look to a boy fresh from Earth: every mote of dust or pebble of pumice sailing off the surface with whatever tra- jectory the treads gave it, uninfluenced by wind; all falling at the same speed, whether light or heavy. He remembered how un- reasonable the effects of vacuum had looked to him when he first saw them. Up here, though, everything was uwun- reasonable. Any man who came here-was unreasonable— 3 Watching the tractor haul its trailer bear- ing Twoie’s slim single-seater, he thought of an ant pulling a twig. Strange thought— he hadn’t seen an ant for years. When the gantry rolled, up on its track and the armored crew hooked on to the ship, he held his breath, senselessly hoping they wouldn’t drop it. They didn’t. They'd never yet dropped a ship. They set Fwoie’s on its tail as if it were a young tree being planted, instead of an unearthly dragon that would some day spout fire so fierce that safety demanded landings and take-offs be made from widely separated points. Dragons, twigs, ants—and safety. The louse of fear was infecting his mind, Ray decided. To snap himself out of it he made Al stay behind, and rode the tricycle to the blast-off ring alone. The boom was rigged, by then, and he started to climb it, but a gantryman insisted by helmet radio on ‘hoisting him to the level. of the air lock that had been clamped to the ship’s hull. When he spoke to the boy, his words were carried electronically stiil, though only a couple of hatches now sparated them. “It’s Dad, Twoie,” he said. “Stand by to receive me.” “Sure, Dad.” He sounded as if Dad were a fellow you stood by to receive every day, as he trudged up from the basement, per- haps, after leaving some five-fifteen pneu- mocar. The air lock was small, but pumping it up took time—interminable time, Ray thought. He found himself shaking, cramped. Several times Twoie tried to talk to him, but Ray could only grunt in reply. It was just as well. The boy had a lot of instructions for the ground crew. Rou- tine instructions, of course—they could -have been recited by the ground chief if Twoie’d missed a cue—but the point, Ray decided, was that Twoie made them sound as routine as they were. As if he’d had practice—though you don’t practice Moon- landings—you just do them. Ray found himself taking unexpected pleasure in the fact Twoie had done his so well. But then, he decided, men take perverse pleasure in all kinds of things. He tried to seem agile when crawling through the inner manhole at the green light’s flash. But he stood up in the cramped. cockpit panting and sweating. The boy’s lips were moving, but Ray had already shut off his radio and was awkwardly reaching around for his nelmet’s right rear thumb- screw. He didn’t want a radio audience. Twoie thought of that, too—turned off his throatmike before helping his father out of the helmet. “Hi, Dad,” he said. He had his mother’s eyes—blue and misty. Ray remembered that mist—it had always been there when she’d watch him blast off. “You're tall!” he said. “Yeah—” He'd made Twoie selfcon- scious. “I guess you figured on a little Ray Fincek, and [’m not so little, any more. Still . . . they say I look like you-—” Like him? This arrow-straight athlete? Nuts! But no wonder he’d attracted a beau- tiful girl— “How’s your wife? How’s Janet?” “Fine! Sends her love. Pve got some pictures of her in my wallet here.” He Eomichooksreo