Astounding Science Fiction, British Edition — page 42: what you’re looking at

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

40 ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION “Nothing, Dan. I told you their communications went out.” “Great! I hope the ship’s radar can find them without their beacon.” “Your crew’s waiting in the brieting ~room,’’ Pete reminded him. Dan knew them all. He’d seen their names on the schedule boards, out at the launching areas, and in the Space Crew’s Club. Pete gave them the usual brief on weather, ionosphere conditions, orbit, and approach. Then he turned it over to Dan. ‘“T’ve never flown with all of you before,” Dan began, “and I’m going to be relying quite heavily on you boys. I want action fast and on the bounce. I don’t have the slightest doubt but that we'll make it; if any- body else does, he’d better ‘stay on the ground.” “We wouldn’t have volunteered otherwise, Dan,’ Bill Eaton, the regular co-pilot of the Ares, put in. “I think everybody here knows you’re one of the best pilots around. We'll team with you.” “Good.” He dusted a spot on the table and sat down on the edge. “How does it look, ship-wise?”’ “Lousy,” Frank Schultz, the radar man, told him. “The radar screens are full of snow and almost unread- able. The ship is picking up a terrific static charge fron the sand blowing against it.” “Communications the same way,”’ Ed Freeman put in. “How about the power plant?’ ““T’ve done my best to keep the sand out,’ Jake Morris replied. “I sealed the jet nozzles with diaphragms and purged all the lines with helium.” Dan nodded. “O.K. Operational plan looks this way to me: White Sands has all their radar dishes tied down so they won’t blow away, and our own screens are cluttered. Bahama will be below horizon until it’s too late to use them for command. We'll forget about radar and com- munications. Bill, set the chronometer and we'll lift on our own count- down.”’ Bill shook his head slowly. ‘““We’re in the soup without radar.” *“Rig the autopilot for a pre-set tape, gyro-stabilized, with provision for manual override,’’ Dan ordered. “Think you can override manually for gust compensation?” “Sure. I'll fly her by the seat of my pants and the gyro selsyns,” Dan said confidently. He could feel— almost see—that these men trusted him as far as ship handling went. They knew he was good. It was going to help; he was beginning to feel less cocksure, but he couldn’t afford to show it. Looking at his watch, he went on, “Two hours to zero. Let’s not waste any more time.” The concrete pad and the murky form of the Ares towering up into the dust made a weird, surrealistic picture as Dan got out of the jeep at the launching site. The sun shone only as a dull orange disk, and outlines were blurred and fogged everywhere. Outside the protective closure of the jeep, the wind was like a massive hand. It ripped and tore at him, and the stinging sand forced him to shut his eyes and cover his face with his arms. Between gusts, he managed to stagger a few steps further across the pad. The collar of his coveralls beat a tattoo on his cheek, so he rolled it under. The sand was piled against every projection, and blew in weaving threads across the concrete. It was a struggle to breathe. Scientific weather control was ren- dered absolutely powerless in the face. of meteorological disturbances of the size which produced winds like that. Dan, and every rocket man, knew connicloooks.c© nl