Astounding Science Fiction (British Edition), April 1944 — page 4: what you’re looking at

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

Recoil By George O. Smith The near impossibility of hitting a spaceship with a shell has been discussed. But even an electron gun would, curi- ously, tend to defeat itself! The weapon protects the target! WALTER FRANKS sat in the director’s office; his feet on the director’s desk. He was smoking one of the director’s cigarettes. He was drinking the director’s liquor, filched shamelessly from the director’s private filing cabinet where it reposed in the drawer marked “S.” Drawer “B” would have given beer, but Walt preferred Scotch. He leaned forward and tossed the direc- tor’s cigarette into the director’s waste- basket and then he pressed the button on the desk and looked up. But it was not the director’s secretary who entered. It was his own, but that did no disturb Franks. He knew that the direc- tor’s secretary was off on Mars enjoying a honeymoon with the director. Jeanne entered and smiled. “Must you call me in here to witness you wasting the company’s time?’’ she asked in mock anger. “Now look, Jeanne, this is what Chan- ning does.” “No dice. You can’t behave as Don Channing behaves. The reason is my hus- band.” “I didn’t call to have you sit on my lap. I want to know if the mail is in.” “I thought so,” she said. “And so I brought it in with me. Anything more?” “Not until you get a divorce,” laughed Franks. “You should live so long,” she said with a smile. She stuck her tongue out at him. Walt thumbed his way through the mail, making notations on some, and setting others aside for closer reading. He came to one and tossed it across the desk at Jeanne. She took the message and read: Dear Acting Director: Having a wonderful honeymoon; glad you aren’t here! Don and Arden. “Wonderful stuff, love,” smiled Franks. “It is,’ agreed Jeanne. A dreamy look came into her eyes. “Scram, Jeanne. There are times when you can’t work worth a darn. Usually when you're thinking of that husband of yours. What’s he got that I haven’t?” “Me,” said Jeanne slyly. She arose and started for the door. “Oh,” she said, “I almost forgot. Warren phoned up and said that the turret is ready for a try-out.” “Fine,” said Walt. “Swell.” He unfolded himself from the chair with alacrity and almost beat the girl to the door. “My,” she laughed, “you can move after all.” “Sure,” he grinned. “Now I have some- thing for which to live.” “TI hope it’s worth it. You’ve sunk a lot of change into that bughouse.” “I know, but we can stand it. After all, since Don took over this affair, Inter- planetary Communications is an up and running business. We’re out of the Govern- ment subsidy class now, and are making money. If this works, we'll make more. It's worth a gamble.” “What are you trying to build?” Bo Ae Jeanne. “Why, since this business of contacting ships-at-space has become so_ universally liked, we have a tough time keeping ships in the mobile beam. That’s because they are always ducking out of the way of loose meteorites and stuff, and that screws up their course. We can’t see ’em, and must take their position on the basis of their expected course. We never know whether we hit ’em until they land. “Now I’ve been trying to devise a space gun that will blast meteors directly instead of avoiding them by coupling the meteor detector to the autopilot.” “Gonna shoot ’em out of existence?” ~ “Not exactly. Popping at them with any kind of a rifle would be like trying to hit a flying bird with a spitball. Look, Jeanne, top speed on the run from Mars to Terra at major opposition is up among the oO Ccomiclooks.c©