Astounding Science Fiction (British edition) — page 28: what you’re looking at

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

26 ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION schedule—even if it carried only one set of gyros. “O.K., O.K., you get your way,”’ Don sighed, reaching for a slip of paper. ‘Fifty it is. The Old Man will scream, but I talked him into this in the first place. How do you want it?” “Certified check. Twenty-five right now, and the balance when I get down —or deposited in the account of my son if something happens.” “Easy, lad, you'll get down O.K. I know you’ve got troubles, but let’s concentrate on this job.” He was glad to have Dick back, in spite of the cost. It meant the Nomad would go on schedule, and he knew Dick was the man to do the job. Project Nomad demanded a man with Dick’s experi- ence as naval flier, submariner, and rocket pilot, as well as his background at Muroc, the Sands, and Mugu. He scribbled the memo and slipped it in the pneumatic tube. “O.K., that’s settled. Accounting will have your check in an hour. Now let’s get out to the field!” “At my mark, the time will be minus-forty minutes. Minus-forty min- utes .. . Mark!” the blockhouse bull horn boomed through the evening air. ** About time for you to get aboard,” Chuck Streiker, the project engineer, prompted. Dick nodded silently as two Navy flight surgeons checked his gear with him. Don Karlter materialized out of the gloom carrying a clipboard filled with a wrinkled sheaf of paper. “‘Every- thing O.K. here?” he asked nervously. “She'll fiy,” Streiker assured him, pushing back his protective “hard- hat” and mopping his brow. “How about Dick?” Karlter asked. “I’m O.K.,”’ Dick said as he checked the fit of some body telemetry gear on his leg. “I'd give my left arm for a cigarette now.” “Not here,” the project engineer warned. They were standing less than two hundred feet from the base of the huge ship. The fueling had just been completed, and the two oxygen boil- off valves high on the ship gave the colossal bulk two white plumes of oxy- gen vapor in the glare of the flood- lights. The ground crews were treating her with great respect now, for she was loaded with tons of high-explosive fuel which made her a giant bomb. No one smoked around her. The very mood of the place was one of high tension, with everyone keyed-up, nerv- ous, and short-tempered with the anxiety that always precedes a shoot. “Have you checked the release on the ground-power plug?” Dick asked as one of the doctors checked the fit of the crash helmet. “I fixed it personally. You'll find the gyros already running,” Streiker pointed out. “We’ve been checking them for the last four hours.” “That still doesn’t mean they won’t tumble,” Dick pointed out. Streiker said yes, but it was a chance they had to take. The bull horn bellowed, ‘Project engineer, report to control!” “Pye got to get this show on the road. Good luck, Dick ; take good care of the Nomad.” He pumped the pilot’s hand earnestly, then disappeared into the dusk toward the blockhouse. The Navy doctors were satisfied with Crowell’s rig; they followed Streiker out of the floodlit area. Don Karlter turned to the pilot. “Pll walk over to the ship with you.” ‘Thanks. I’m glad someone realizes I’m here. Everybody seems wrapped up in their gadgets.” The tremendous bulk of the ship was plenty to get wrapped up in, for this was the first manned orbital job. The Nomad was an ugly ship; a fat, pyramidal, three-step chemical rocket, Connicooolkks.€© in