Astounding Science Fiction (British Edition), August 1944 — page 8: what you’re looking at

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

0 ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION “No so bad. Just made him jittery. He’ll be all right in a week. But we won’t have to run home without a pilot. I’ve got one coming out in a couple of hours. Drake. Ever heard of a pilot named Drake?” “Seems to me that the name is familiar,” said McBride slowly. “But not too clear. Pll know him when I see him.” “I won’t. Conducted the hiring by mail, and then gave him a call when the need came—your need, I mean. They told me that Drake was out of the building, but that he’d be at Hellsport as soon as they could find him. Has a pretty good record, too, save for one thing—” “Steve,” said one of the men, “can you give us a lift? The Beetle’s alphatron is somewhat heavier than we can handle around this corner.” “Sure. And the next time we’re at Terra, have ’em fix the hoist rail, huh?” Wires, bunched cables, and scraps were a tangled mess on the floor. Tools were strewn about in profusion. A box of nuts and bolts had overturned and cascaded the small parts across the floor below the work- bench. But the work was progressing in fine shape in spite of the seeming confusion and messiness. To someone who Knew these men, it was obvious that they knew their business and how to use their tools even though the place was ankle deep in junk. To someone who knew them not, the place looked like a junk shop. “Is this the place where the finest brains in space work out the intricate problems?” asked a cool contralto with a cynical tone. McBride, who had just finished’ welding a small angle bracket on the bottom of the mech-grav generator, looked up, blinked, did a double take, and then stood up. The torch burned the air in his limp fingers, wasting the canned gas. “You! Drake! Sandra Drake!” “Is there another?” asked the saucy voice. “I thought that Sandy was a nickname,” snapped Hammond. “It’s Sandra,” said she, “and it looks to me that your friend McBride is always up to his ears in junk!” John extinguished the torch and advanced upon the picturesque redhead. “Have you still got your license?” he asked. “After that stunt you pulled—” “Your political pals took away my private license, but I’m still registered as a pilot. This, I’ve been told, is an emergency, and, therefore, I am compelled to run your junk- heap for you. I’m willing for no other reason than the fact that my assistance to you in your so-called time of need will be instrumental in getting my private license back. Are you ready to go—and where?” “We’re about ready to try,” said Steve. “Try?” scorned Sandra. The _ perfect features twisted in a sneer. “Aren’t the best brains working today?” ; “Look, Pilot Drake, this is an experi- mental crate from way back,” snapped Hammond. “You’re likely to find yourself drinking coffee out of a relay-shield. We blew out the only alphatron this side of Jupiter by mishap, and John and we have been trying to gain the same effect by trusf- ing to an experiment made several years ago but abandoned.” “I think Ill have none of it,” snorted Drake. “I'd like to see a little more of the solar system before I die. You can get some other fool to run your patched-up ash can.” “Drake,” said Steve Hammond, “if you do not run this crate for us—or at least try as hard as we are trying—I’ll personally see that you are mentioned whenever skunks, lizards, and butyl mercaptan are talked about. This is an emergency.” “Mind telling me just what type of life- and-death run you’re going for?” asked Sandra, loftily. “Enid McBride is hurt and needs him,” said Hammogd, pointing at John. “There’s a small matter involved—a small matter of a baby’s life, possibly. If John can get there in time, his presence will give Enid the amount of lift she needs. Get me?” “Baby?” sneered Sandra. “What woman in her right might would have—” “Your mother,” snapped Hammond, “and she made a mistake. Now will you rectify her error and do something of value for once in your ill-used twenty-four years?” “I’ve no choice,” said Drake. “T’'ll do it. But—” : “No buts. You’re under suspension right now, and how you handle the Haywire Queen marks your card. Take it—or take it)” ‘“‘Where’s the pilot room?” asked Sandra in a cool tone. “Below—where it usually is in a ship of this type. Your orders will be coming soon enough, I hope.” “And our destination will probably be Station 1?” “Right. details?” Will you need navigational QO comilclboo S CO