Rocket to Luna

“Must we land tomorrow?” Dr. Gehardt asked. His eyes were cloudy with concern. Ted noticed that he seemed somehow older since the accident. “Isn’t there some way to postpone it until George is...”

“Our orbit was calculated to take us to the Moon,” Forbes said. “If we don’t land on it, we’ll crash on it.”

“Can’t we change our orbit?” Dr. Gehardt asked.

Forbes shook his head. “We’ve got just enough fuel to get us to the Moon. If we use that fuel to change our orbit, avoiding a crash, we wouldn’t have any left to take us anywhere else. As it is, we’ll be using that fuel when we start braking for a landing.”

“Braking?”

“Yes. In effect, we’ll be turning the rocket so that she’ll come down tail first, the thrust of our jets braking our descent. In other words, we’ll be literally sitting down on our jets.”

“But if you know all this, why can’t you bring her down?” Dr. Phelps asked.

Forbes slammed his fist into the open palm of his other hand. “That’s just the trouble. I know this ship as well as I know my own mother. I can take it apart and put it together again blindfolded. But navigation is something else again. And I wouldn’t want to fool with a navigation problem as tricky as this one will be.”

“But... I don’t understand. Why can’t we radio the Space Station? They should be able to give us directions.”

Forbes shook his head. “Doc, the only part of this trip that isn’t automatic is the landing process. Someday, maybe that’ll be automatic, too. But right now, all the figures are theoretical — and the margin of error is too great to gamble on.”

“We do have figures, then?”

“Sure. We have loads of approximate figures. All supplied by the Station months before the actual trip. Figures that say when turnover should take place, how long we should blast, all of it. But these figures have to be constantly checked against our course and speed and distance from the Moon as we move along. That can’t be done from the Station.”

“Why not? We can radio them, and they can do the computation there.”

“Up to a point, yes.”

“Why only up to a point?”

“Because turnover has to be a split-second maneuver. We could miss our turnover point in the time it took us to call a set of figures to the Station.”

“I see.”

“We could probably do the computation ourselves, and much faster. It takes quite a while for a voice to travel from here to the Station.”

“Yes,” Dr. Phelps agreed. “We’d be better off computing the figures ourselves.”

“I could probably handle that. Maybe. But tying that in with the actual navigation... that’s another thing. Translating figures into actual maneuvers...” Forbes shook his head. “And knowing just when to perform the maneuvers...”

“But suppose you had to?”

Forbes spread his hands helplessly. “I still couldn’t do it, Doc. It’s like... like asking me to perform brain surgery. Even if I had to, I couldn’t.”

Dr. Phelps nodded glumly. “I see.”

“Dan!”

The voice was barely a whisper. It shuddered across the cabin like a hoarse wind from a mountain-top.

“Dan!”

Forbes shoved himself away from the instrument panel. “George!” he shouted, his eyes brightening. “George, boy, George!”

In spite of the heavy sandals, he crossed the deck like a jack rabbit, pulling himself up short beside Merola’s couch. He kneeled down, his ear close to Merola’s face.

“Dan... how... how long?” Merola asked.

“To braking?” Forbes asked.

Merola opened his mouth as if to speak. He closed it then, as if the effort were too tiring. He nodded his head instead, his eyes clenched tight, his face lax.

“Tomorrow sometime,” Forbes answered.

Merola nodded again. He seemed to lapse into unconsciousness once more, and he remained silent for so long that Forbes finally whispered, “George, can you hear me?”

Merola tried to nod his head, his features distorted in pain. “Hurts,” he whispered. “Hurts like... like the...”

“Don’t try to talk,” Forbes said. “You’ll be all right by tomorrow. You’ll be able to land us.”

There was a long silence, and Ted could hear the heavy breathing of the men. The two doctors were crowded in behind Forbes, anxiously looking down at Merola.

A tired sigh escaped Merola’s drawn lips. He shook his head vaguely and whispered, “No... won’t... hurts...”

“You’ll be fine,” Forbes reassured him.

“No,” Merola said again. “Boy... Jack...”

“Jack’s not with us, George,” Forbes said gently.

Merola nodded weakly, then breathed deeply. “Know... I know. Ted, I mean. Baker... Baker...”

Ted’s heart quickened at mention of his name. He walked across the cabin, drawing closer to the men, hoping they wouldn’t send him off again.

“What about Baker?” Forbes asked, his voice harsh in spite of his obvious attempt to keep it gentle.

“Land... Baker... Academy boy,” Merola mumbled.

“You mean...”

A low sigh escaped Merola’s lips again; a long, tired, “Oh-h-h-h-h.” His eyes flickered briefly, almost as if he were struggling to open them, and then he seemed to sag back against the cushion.