"Waiting to be rescued," Rick said on impulse.
"Reckon that can be arranged. You drove in, hey? But you didn't drive into town. Instead, you parked in the wash. Now, as sheriff, I find that mighty interesting. You wouldn't have parked there unless you didn't want to be seen. Only I suspect you were seen, and whoever did the seein' walked off with your distributor cap and rotor. Unless you have 'em, which I doubt. If you had 'em you wouldn't need rescuin'. Correct?"
"You're telling it," Rick replied courteously.
"Yep. Also, you're from Scarlet Lake, and you're nosy. Day before yesterday you got nosy at Careless Mesa and nearly got pinked. Are you busybodies, or have you got a right to snoop?"
Rick stared at the man. He had a strong suspicion they were looking at the mysterious rifleman. Since the man hadn't come into Steamboat by car, he must have come by horseback. The rifleman had departed from Careless Mesa by horseback, too.
Scotty spoke up, in response to the man's question. "You might say we're busybodies. We're curious about everything."
"Uh-uh. Toss me your badges."
Rick's eyes met Scotty's. He shrugged. There was no reason for not complying. Both boys detached their badges and tossed them across the floor. The man picked them up, examined them closely, then tossed them back.
"All right. Come on with me and we'll have some breakfast." He tucked the rifle under his arm, turned, and walked out. As the boys followed, they cast puzzled looks at each other. The man led them to the cache Scotty had found. A saddled horse was standing in front of the house.
"I've seen that horse before," Scotty said. "It was nice of you to wave at me up at Careless Mesa."
The man grinned.
Rick asked bluntly, "Why did you shoot at us?"
Twinkling blue eyes surveyed him. "Didn't. If I'd shot at you I'd have scored a few hits."
"You were warning us off," Scotty said. "Were we getting too close to something?"
The man tilted his hat back and chuckled. "Mighty curious pair, I'd say. No, son. But if you stayed around, I wouldn't get close to what I wanted to get close to. What's more, I figgered you weren't just tourists. You had a purpose in being at Careless Mesa. Your actions told me that, and I didn't want you there."
"We might have reported the shooting," Rick said carefully. "You could have gotten into trouble. Why didn't you just ask us to leave?"
"That would have brought questions I didn't want to answer. Why didn't you report it?"
That stopped Rick. They might have reported it, if there had been more opportunity to go into detail with John Gordon.
Conversation lapsed. The man filled a coffeepot from a water bag, brought out a propane-powered single-burner camp stove, and started the coffee going.
In a short time a simple breakfast of fruit juice, crackers, cheese, and coffee was ready. Then, as he juggled a hot mug of coffee, Rick said, "We're mighty grateful, sir. But we can't thank you properly when we don't know your name."
The man studied them again, over the lip of his coffee mug. "When did you boys get to Scarlet Lake?"
Rick told him. There was no reason to conceal it.
"Uh-uh. I figgered you were pretty new. Now tell me exactly what happened here last night."
The boys hesitated.
Rick asked, "Are you just being curious?"
"No. I've got a reason, and it's a good one."
Instinct told Rick that the man was more than he seemed, but that he was in no way a thief or law-breaker. Briefly he sketched the events of the previous night without going into the reasons for their own actions. Scotty filled in a few details.
"All right. I'm Deadrock Ogg. Besides being the mayor and all the other city officials of Steamboat I'm a prospector. Last night I was doin' a little prospectin' and I came up with pay dirt. You saw what happened here. Well, I kind of figgered in advance what was going to happen, and I waited on the turnoff to Pahrump Valley. A sedan went by me pretty fast, but not so fast I didn't get the license number. Mostly because I was lyin' at the roadside waitin', and interested only in that."
"But the sedan traveled without lights."
"Not past the turnoff it didn't. Road's too curvy, and in too much shadow. That's why I was there. I knew they'd have to turn on lights."
It was Rick's turn to give Deadrock Ogg his own question back. "Who are you, Mr. Ogg? Are you a busybody? Or do you have a right to snoop?"
Deadrock Ogg chuckled. "The answer you gave me is good enough. Now, I'm going to lend you a distributor cap and rotor."
"Where are you going to get the parts?" Scotty asked.
"My own jeep. I've got one cached just above here. Now, when you get back to Scarlet Lake, you see Tom Preston right away. You know who he is. Tell him exactly what you told me, and what I told you. And give him the number I'm goin' to write down for you. Then you ask Tom to send a plane back to drop off my cap and rotor. And tell him to send a walkie-talkie, too.
"Now, I got a real good idea what game you boys are playin' and it's fine by me. Only don't get into my game. Stay on the base. You mean well, but you could cross me up when it would hurt most. Some day, after we have the one we want, we'll compare notes. Now let's get goin'. You kids are goin' to have a long, long drive. I'm sendin' you home by way of Pahrump Valley."
"It's shorter directly back to the base," Scotty objected.
"Sure. And you'll attract more attention that way. Go through the valley and back to Route 95, and you'll enter from the front gate. Then who'll know you didn't spend the night in Vegas?"
It took only ten minutes to get the parts from Deadrock's jeep, which was parked in a ravine, invisible to anything except a low-flying plane. They said good-by to the "prospector" at the edge of town.
"Got the map in your heads? You won't get lost?" Deadrock asked.
"We'll be fine," Rick assured him.
"All right. Get goin'. And, boys—look out for sidewinders!"
Rick and Scotty took time to shower and change, then left on their prearranged errands. Scotty headed for his own department, to check all travel to the north since the Orion firing. Rick set out to find John Gordon.
The Spindrift scientist was not in his office, nor could Rick find him around the base. Finally he took the jeep and headed for the firing area.
There was considerable activity down on the lake bed. At a pad close to the blockhouse a tower was under construction. That was the launching tower for Cetus. But of even more personal interest to Rick was the presence of a gantry crane at a third firing pad where one of the special rocket-transport trucks was just putting the first stage of Pegasus into place!
It was at the Pegasus pad that he found Gordon, in conversation with Gee-Gee Gould, Dick Earle, Frank Miller, Cliff Damon, head of the instrumentation section, and Lars Jannsson, head of the Pegasus propulsion section.
"We'll start security immediately," Gordon was saying as Rick walked up. "Tom Preston will arrange for a guard around the clock. We'll also arrange an exchange-badge system, so no one gets inside the fence without handing in his own badge and getting a special one. That way, we'll have absolute control on who comes and goes."
Gee-Gee Gould saw Rick and dropped a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Rick and I will do the final electronics check, just as we did on Orion."
Rick looked at Gordon. "Did you say something about a fence, sir?"
"I did. Look over there." Gordon pointed to a crew with a mechanical posthole digger that was just starting work, then gestured to sticks with red flags that formed a huge box around the pad. "That's where the fence will go. And there will be only one gate."
Rick took advantage of the brief exchange with Gordon to wink at the scientist. Gordon picked up the cue quickly. "Can I ride back to the base with you? I rode down with Dick, but he's not ready to leave yet."
"Glad to have you, sir," Rick replied.
On the way back to the base Rick told his story in detail, starting with Scotty's and his own first suspicions about Mac and Pancho and ending with their rescue by Deadrock Ogg.
John Gordon remained silent for long minutes after Rick had finished. Finally he said, "You've certainly stirred up something, Rick, but I don't know how it fits into the over-all pattern. You and Scotty meet me in thirty minutes in my quarters and we'll see."
Rick dropped the scientist off at his office, then went to find Scotty. His pal was just emerging from the big maintenance shed. "Anything new?" Rick greeted him.
"Mac and Pancho took their truck out last night," Scotty reported. "The timing was right. They could have been driving the second vehicle that arrived while we were getting loose in the jail."
Rick looked at him curiously. "Funny. Why would they take a truck out? I mean, what legitimate reason could they have?"
"They made one. Mac told the dispatcher they'd left an important piece of gear at Careless Mesa."
So their hunch about Mac and Pancho had been right! But Rick still couldn't figure out how they were involved.
"How did you find out?" he asked.
"Easy. I checked the board. The dispatcher was sitting right there, so I just kind of wondered aloud what a tracking team would be doing off the base at night. He's a talkative sort, anyway, so he just handed me the dope."
Exactly twenty minutes later Rick and Scotty walked through the door into the barracks in which John Gordon had his quarters. They hadn't been inside before, although they had taken the precaution of locating it in advance. It wasn't like their barracks. Instead, it was divided into a series of individual rooms, occupied by the chief executives of the base.
Gordon was waiting, and with him was Colonel Tom Preston. Preston shook hands with them.
"Apparently John was right," he greeted them. "You two do have a knack of sniffing things out."
Rick looked at the thin partition. "Is it okay to talk here?"
"It is now. I've checked. The occupants of nearby rooms are out. We'll be able to hear if anyone comes in."
Rick immediately launched into a recital of their activities since arriving in Las Vegas. Now and then Scotty elaborated. A few times Preston interrupted to ask for clarification on a point or two.
"Good," he said when they had finished. "I'll see that Deadrock gets his parts back."
"Who is Deadrock Ogg?" Scotty asked.
Preston smiled. "Quite a character, isn't he? Normally he's a Forest Ranger. At the moment he's on loan to me, serving as my outside security officer. He did a good piece of work, getting that license number. We'll hand it to the FBI bureau in Las Vegas and they'll take it from there."
"He must have had advance information, to be at the right spot to get it," Rick observed.
"No more than you had," Preston told him. "We reached the same conclusion that you and Luis Hermosa did, about how stolen goods could get off the base. We've been watching from the inside, and Deadrock has been watching at the Steamboat end."
"Then you already knew about Mac and Pancho leaving last night," Scotty stated.
"Yes. But we really don't know any more than you two have found out. We're no closer to finding out who sabotaged the rockets—or who stole the transistors and the servomotors."
"What?" the boys exclaimed in unison.
Tom Preston's eyebrows went up. "You haven't heard? But of course you haven't, because you weren't here when we finished inventory. We're missing ninety thousand dollars' worth of servomotors."
"Suffering spacefish!" Rick groaned.
Scotty asked quickly, "When did it happen?"
"During the Orion shoot. Project Cetus had drawn servos the day before, and they were on the shelves then."
"The stock clerks . . ." Rick began.
"Ran out to see Orion," Colonel Preston finished. "They've gone out to see every shoot since the first one. But all of them swear no unauthorized personnel got into the warehouses. Of course they can't be sure, because none of them kept eyes on the doors."
"Could any of the clerks be in on the thefts?" Scotty asked.
"If so, we have no evidence of it. But we have so little evidence it doesn't count for much anyway. Of course we have some ideas, and I suppose you do, too."
Rick and Scotty nodded.
Preston continued, "The thing that's clear to us is that there isn't just an Earthman. There's a gang. Someone sabotages the rockets. Someone else steals the stuff from the warehouse. Someone else—and it looks like Mac and Pancho—takes the stuff to Careless Mesa, or Steamboat, or both. And someone else—the gang that captured you—gets it at Steamboat and takes it to Vegas. Then, I suppose, still another man or group gets rid of it through trade channels."
John Gordon had been listening without comment. Now he spoke up. "The pattern seems to indicate sabotage, in order to create a diversion for thieves. I can't buy it."
The boys and Preston waited for his reason.
"The thefts are peanuts. Oh, not in terms of ordinary thefts. But it doesn't seem reasonable that anyone, no matter how greedy or crooked, would destroy ten million dollars' worth of rocket to steal goods only a tiny fraction of that in value."
Gordon's comments were an echo of what Rick had thought when the theft of transistors first came to light. He simply couldn't believe theft was the only reason. He had also rejected theft as a means of hampering operations. While loss of parts was a nuisance, it wasn't crippling.
"Then the Earthman—I mean the Earthman who sabotages the rockets—has to be a part of the technical staff," Rick said.
Gordon and Preston nodded. "Because only the project people have ready access to the rockets," Gordon agreed. "Have you found out anything suspicious about any of them, Tom?"
Preston shook his head. "I've studied their security background investigations until I'm half blind. There isn't a thing that has even a remote connection."
Gordon added, "Maybe finding the actual saboteur is the toughest part, but there are some things about the thefts that aren't clear to me. For instance, how did Deadrock Ogg know the car would be traveling without lights? He told the boys how he planted himself at the Pahrump Valley turnoff because the sedan would have to turn on lights there. How did he know?"
Rick had figured that part out. "At night, car lights can be seen for miles. The last thing in the world the thieves would want would be to attract attention to Steamboat. The only way to be sure would be to travel without lights. Turning them on during the run through the twisting roads into the valley wouldn't be too much of a risk, because the road can't be seen for long distances there."
Scotty asked, "But why did the men handle us so gently last night? They didn't rough us up, especially. And one of them said we could get loose."
"You didn't see them, did you?" Preston countered. "It was too dark. So there was no danger of your identifying them. Why add murder or mayhem to the list of charges when you gain nothing?"
John Gordon stirred restlessly. "We'd better end this meeting. If the boys are associated with us, and especially with you, Tom, it will mean an end to their usefulness."
"You're right, John." Preston looked at the boys. "The biggest value you have is as free agents. I won't try to keep you posted on all my activities. And don't bother trying to contact me, or John, about what you're doing. It's too dangerous—unless you turn up a definite lead. Meanwhile, go on as you have been. I'd say you were doing fine. Just be careful. These men may have been gentle last night when they had nothing to lose, but that doesn't mean it's a way of life with them. Now scoot. And try not to be seen leaving."
The boys shook hands and started out, but Rick paused at the door and said something that had been on his mind since the Orion disaster.
"There's one thing. Let's hope that when the Earthman finally trips up, it won't be in front of everybody, especially after a shoot that he's just sabotaged. Otherwise, we'll never get a chance to question him. He'll be dead—lynched on the spot by the rocketeers!"
Rick held a servomotor in place while Phil Sherman, one of the other technicians, bolted it securely.
"There you are," Phil said. "Anything else?"
"That does it. Thanks, Phil. I can wire it up now." Rick got to work, connecting up the newly installed servo. Like other servomotors it was tiny and powerful, translating electronic signals into mechanical actions. This particular one was no larger than a spool of thread, but it would actuate control tabs on the wings of Pegasus. Other motors ranged in size from even smaller to quite large ones about as big as a gallon can. The small ones were terrifically expensive, probably the reason they had been attractive to the Earthman and his gang.
When Rick was finished with the simple connections, he called Dr. Bond. The elderly scientist checked carefully, then nodded approval.
Phil Sherman stuck his head in the door. "Dick Earle wants everyone out front. Staff meeting."
Rick and Dr. Bond hurriedly disconnected soldering irons and went out to the main shed.
The Pegasus staff was gathering around Dr. Gordon, who was using a large packing case for a podium. Rick saw the section chiefs conversing in low tones next to Gordon's perch, and his heart pounded. Had the Earthman appeared again?
Then, as the staff finally collected and Dr. Gordon began, Rick relaxed a little. This wasn't about the Earthman, apparently.
"We are about to make a major schedule change," Gordon began. "However, until we consult with the Pegasus group, we will not know if the change is feasible.
"The Cetus group has run into a major roadblock. One essential piece of apparatus cannot be delivered on schedule, because of trouble at the factory where it's being made. In all probability Cetus will be held up about three weeks. Now, as some of you know, the Cetus staff had already begun work at the pad, and in the blockhouse. The question is, does Pegasus wish to take over the Cetus schedule?"
Gordon held up his hand as a murmur swept the Pegasus crew. "This does not mean you must shoot on their firing date. It merely means that you must be out of the way by the time they are ready to move in again. If you can, we will switch the schedule around and put you next. If you can't, it will only mean that your firing date must be delayed. It's up to you—specifically, it's up to your chiefs. However, we wanted you all to know about Cetus just to spike any wild rumors that might get started. The delay is not due to anything but a factory failure to deliver."
Dr. Gordon yielded his improvised speaker's stand to Dr. Howard Bernais, the project technical director. Dr. Bernais was administrative and technical head of the entire project. Presumably he met with the section chiefs fairly often, but he had an office near John Gordon in the main administrative building and seldom came to the project.
The technical director was a gray-haired, gaunt, bespectacled man who surveyed the staff through thick lenses. His voice filled the great shed, not that he spoke loudly, but because he had that indefinable something known as "command presence." Rick was impressed.
"We sometimes forget, we technical people, that we live in a democracy," Dr. Bernais began. "We're so used to taking orders that when someone offers us a free choice we're rather surprised. However, when John Gordon spoke to me about a change in schedule, I felt we should talk it over. If you, as the people who will make Pegasus live up to its name, are eager and willing, the change will work. If you have doubts, it may not."
The technical director peered through his thick lenses and located Lars Jannsson. "You have some difficult problems with the third-stage motor, Lars. Can you be ready?"
Jannsson turned to his crew for confirmation, then nodded. "We will be ready whenever you say, Dr. Bernais."
Robert Bialkin, head of the air-frame section, spoke up. "We're just about done anyway, Doctor. We have a few minor modifications of the airfoils, then we're finished."
"Good. Where is Cliff Damon?... What shape are you in?"
Before Damon could reply, Prince Machiavelli put in an appearance. The little spacemonk had apparently decided it was too lonely in the workshop. Now he jumped from head to head, ignoring the surprised cries of the staff, until he landed on Rick's shoulder.
Amid the laughter, Cliff Damon said, "Here's one of our chief instruments to speak for himself. I think he's ready."
Dr. Bernais peered at the marmoset, then nodded gravely. "Just one suggestion. He will undoubtedly be man- or monk-of-the-week on the cover of a news magazine. Perhaps you should give him a crew haircut, so he'll look more like one of the staff." He held up his hand and the chuckles subsided. "Then you can be ready, Cliff?... Good. Dick Earle! It's now up to you. How say you?"
Dick hesitated. Rick watched him, anxious to see what his chief would say. He cuddled the spacemonk in his arms and stroked the silky head.
"We'll have to put in plenty of overtime," Dick said finally. "I think we can make it all right, but it will put a load on the staff. What do you think, boys?"
Rick joined in the chorus of yeas! If every other section could be ready, electronics would be, too.
"There's your answer, Doctor," Dick Earle said.
"Thank you. Now I ask for a unanimous opinion. Can we fly our winged horse on this new schedule?"
The shout sent Prince Machiavelli skittering up to Rick's neck and down inside his shirt.
Pegasus was committed to flight!
The problem of the Earthman was looming larger, Rick thought. The next target for the saboteur would be his own project. The very idea made him a little ill. Pegasus was too big, too important to be sabotaged! But he recalled ruefully, Orion had also been too big and important. Of course no trace of the Earthman had been found by the Orion staff, but the servomotor theft seemed to tie the Earthman to the disaster.
"I'm going to be up to my neck in spaghetti," Rick told Scotty when they met for supper. "I don't see how there'll be much chance to look for the Earthman."
"It should be better than ever," Scotty objected. "For the first time, you'll be right on the target."
That was true, Rick agreed. He hadn't looked at it in quite that way. "What are your plans?" he asked.
"I'm going to concentrate on the warehouse. Remember what Colonel Preston said about the clerks? They swore they hadn't seen any unauthorized person entering while they were watching the shoot."
"But they couldn't have kept an eye on the warehouses," Rick objected. "Anyone could have sneaked in."
Scotty shook his head. "I don't think so. Of course they watched the shoots, but you can also bet they were turning pretty often to look at the warehouses. They must have seen some activity. Otherwise, why would they say unauthorized persons?"
"I can't imagine," Rick admitted. "What's your idea?"
"The only people who could go in and out without being noticed particularly, or challenged, would be members of the service staff."
"Like the postman?"
"Yes. Or telephone repairmen, or power men, or janitors, or plumbers. There must be a dozen different kinds of people who have the run of the base because of their duties. I'm going to keep an eye open to see who goes in and out regularly—and Luis Hermosa is going to help."
"Luis? How can he help?"
"The fire station has a good view of the warehouses. You know how firemen are. When they're not cleaning or making repairs, they like to sit out front. Luis is out of the infirmary and back on limited duty, and another pair of eyes will help. Once we establish who has free run of the warehouses, I'll try to see which of them have any connection with Mac or Pancho. Okay?"
"Sounds good," Rick agreed. "And I'll keep my red-rimmed eyes wide open down at the pad, too. We'll get something on this Earthman yet!"
Rick had joined in the enthusiasm for moving up the date of the Pegasus shoot, but as he gazed around the project he began to wonder if they hadn't all been carried away. There were parts and pieces everywhere. He couldn't begin to make heads or tails out of all the confusion.
Fortunately, he didn't have to. Now that zero hour was closer, the confusion turned into order like a miracle.
Rick continued to work on the drone section. The drone mechanism was actually in two parts. The part on which Rick worked was to be installed in the rocket. The other part would be installed in the blockhouse where it would be operated by the drone pilot.
Dick Earle maintained a constant check on the work, and Frank Miller was always on hand. Miller had designed the drone system, based on principles developed by Dr. Bond and other pioneers. As Rick worked, he learned how the system operated. The drone pilot in the blockhouse sat at a panel on which normal plane controls were duplicated in miniature. In front of him were elaborate radar screens. The drone pilot watched the radar screens and "flew" the rocket. As he moved the controls, code signals were transmitted and picked up by the unit inside the rocket where they were translated into mechanical movements of the rocket's control surfaces by the number of servomotors.
Rick had to consult with Frank Miller several times, and he began to grow apprehensive about the design engineer's health. Miller's face was gray with pain most of the time, and he often held both hands on his stomach when he thought no one was watching. Rick mentioned it to Dick Earle.
"I know," Earle said. "I've tried to get him out of here, at least to see the doctor, but he won't go. He says there'll be plenty of time when the shoot is over."
Then, in the coolness of a Scarlet Lake dawn, Lieutenant Colonel Jerry Lipton, one of the Air Force's crack pilots, arrived in one of the latest jet trainers. The staff of Pegasus greeted him and got to work at once. The jet trainer would take the place of the rocket for testing purposes.
This was the field test of the drone system—the only time it would be checked in actual flight until the day of use. While Rick, Dr. Bond, and Dick Earle installed the flying portion of the system in the plane, Gee-Gee Gould, Phil Sherman, and Charlie Kassick installed the control section in the blockhouse.
The installation took all day. The sun was dropping behind the blockhouse when final checks were made.
A guard arrived at Dick Earle's summons and mounted watch on the plane. Another guard was always on duty at the blockhouse, and still another at the now fenced-in pad where the sections of Pegasus were being assembled.
The staff secured for the night. Test flight was scheduled for midmorning. Rick had asked, and been given permission, to see the test from the blockhouse. Jerry Lipton would run the blockhouse controls. Another test pilot, who was driving up from the big test station at Muroc Dry Lake, was due in the morning to serve as check pilot in the drone-controlled jet trainer.
Rick went back to his barracks filled with excitement. The flying horse was about to try his brains, if not his wings. Zero hour was getting close.
When Scotty asked how things were coming, Rick described their activities in enthusiastic detail. But Scotty only grinned. "I didn't want a connection-by-connection description of each circuit in the rocket. What I meant was, is there anything new on the Earthman?"
Rick shook his head. "I've kept my eyes open, but everything's normal as Sunday at home."
Scotty got serious. "Better be alert every second. Don't forget, boy. You're now sitting on the target."
"You're dead right," Rick agreed, somewhat subdued. "How are you doing?"
"Not bad. I have a list of eight people who go in and out of the warehouses regularly. They go in and out so often none of them would even be noticed. Also, I think I know how the transistors and servos were taken out."
Rick stared. "Honest?"
"I think so. Ever notice how the cleaning men work? They have carts. Big ones, made of metal. At one end is a kind of well, for brooms, mops, and the vacuum cleaner wand and tubes. But most of the cart is just a metal box. The sides open. They carry rags, soap, that sawdust stuff for the floor, and so on. Get the picture? The warehouse janitor could have had empty boxes all ready inside his cart. Then, in about two minutes flat, he could have changed them for full boxes."
"You've got something there," Rick said with excitement. "Any idea which janitor?"
Scotty nodded. "The one who gets the warehouses to clean most often is a character named Dusty Rhoads. He's in and out a dozen times a day, pushing his wagon. He empties the waste cans and sweeps up and generally puts things in order. No one even notices him."
"Have you reported this to Preston or John Gordon?"
"No. It's only an idea so far. No evidence at all. There's nothing to connect him with Mac or Pancho."
"Well," Rick said, "you're sure making faster progress than I am. There's absolutely nothing suspicious at the project, and, believe me, I'm watching closely."
Morning brought trouble, but not of the suspicious kind. Lieutenant Colonel Jerry Lipton walked into the project shed with a note in his hand.
"Test is off," the pilot said. "For today at least."
Dick Earle motioned to Rick. "Get Dr. Bernais."
Rick rushed to the phone and called the project technical director. Dr. Bernais promised to come over at once. He wasted no time, arriving almost before Rick had a chance to report back to Dick Earle. With him was John Gordon.
Jerry Lipton greeted them. "I'm sorry, gentlemen. The other pilot cracked up in his car last night on Route 66 just west of Barstow. He's not in bad shape, but he won't be flying for a week or two. We can get another pilot, but it will take a day."
"We can't spare a day," Bernais said forcefully. "Surely there must be something we can do!"
John Gordon rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You've controlled drones many times, Colonel. Is there anything unusual about this job?"
"There is nothing unusual about the test we're going to run. There will be plenty unusual about the actual rocket flight," Lipton replied.
"Then the pilot who sits in the plane doesn't necessarily have to be what you might call a 'hot shot'?"
Lipton shrugged. "Not particularly. He only takes over if the drone control goes out."
"Then any pilot would do?"
"Any pilot who could handle the jet."
Rick wondered what Gordon was leading up to.
"Then why can't we find a check pilot here on the base?"
Rick now understood what Gordon was leading up to!
"We could do that," Lipton agreed. "Do you have any pilots on hand?"
Gordon turned suddenly and looked straight at Rick. "Don't I recall that you were flying your own plane when you worked on that job at Spindrift?"
Rick gulped. "Yes, sir. I fly my own plane. But it isn't a jet, sir!"
"What is it?" Lipton asked.
Rick named it.
"Ever fly a jet?"
Rick had, and for the moment he was sorry. Thanks to his friends at JANIG, he had been given an opportunity to try out a Navy jet trainer after the case of The Wailing Octopus in the Virgin Islands. Steve Ames had made special arrangements at the Naval Air Station when Rick wistfully said he would like to fly a jet just once.
Lipton studied him. "Hmmm. This jet is hotter than those trainers by a factor of three, except in landing. Since landing is the critical factor, I'll buy it. First, though, we'll take a little ride."
Rick was filled with mixed excitement and apprehension.
"I'll be glad to try, sir," he said, with more confidence than he felt.
The test pilot rode to the lake bed with Rick in the jeep. On the way he inspected the boy critically. "You're pretty young," he said at last.
"Yes, sir," Rick said, thinking that Lipton wasn't very old himself, especially for his rank.
"Remember the first rule of flying?"
"Yes, sir. Keep your nerve and your flying speed."
"Correct. Remember that, and follow it, and you'll have no trouble."
Lipton followed with a rapid-fire description of instruments, controls, and procedures that left Rick's mind reeling. Finally the test pilot produced a check list. "Think you can follow it?"
Rick swallowed hard. "Can I sit in the plane for a few minutes and study, sir?"
Lipton smiled. "Sure. Call me when you're ready."
Rick climbed into the pilot's seat and took the stick, put his feet in the stirrups, and started getting acquainted with the feel of the controls while eyes and brain concentrated on the incredible clutter of instruments that every pilot has to know better than the working of his own hand.
More study wouldn't help. It was now or never. He called to the pilot. "Ready, sir."
Lipton climbed up on the wing and motioned to Rick to put on the helmet and plug in his phones. There was a spare helmet-and-phone set in the rear seat for the Air Force officer. Rick switched the radio on and heard the soft hum of dynamotors. He cleared his throat and asked, "Do you read me?"
"All right, Rick. Follow your check list and start the blowtorch going."
Rick mopped sweat from his face and went through the starting procedure. The jet flared into sudden life with a roar.
"Ready to taxi," he said.
"Roger. Proceed when ready."
Cautiously Rick fed throttle, aware of the tremendous power under his hand—power that could be deadly if misused. Using the brakes he turned the jet and then let it roll forward to the edge of the black strip that marked the runway.
"Ready to take off, sir," he said.
"Roger. Fire away."
He made a quick survey of the sky to be sure no other aircraft were in the vicinity. There was no control tower with which to check out. Now! He made himself relax a little and pushed the throttle to take-off position.
Fast acceleration snapped him back against the seat. The jet began to wander a little and he corrected automatically, and almost overcorrected! With infinite care he straightened out again, just as the plane was air-borne. Eyes riveted on the horizon, he felt for the switch that pulled up the landing gear and felt the plane spurt ahead as the drag of wheels and struts was removed.
Lipton's voice came through the phones, relaxed and a little amused. "No need to treat this bucket of bolts like a baby, Rick. You've got power to burn. Go, man! Make like a bird!"
Rick had to grin. He was flying automatically, as he flew his own Sky Wagon. But Lipton was right. This was a jet, not a low-powered sports plane. Suddenly exuberant he cracked the throttle and stood the jet on its tail. It climbed vertically, an amazing sensation for Rick. Power to burn!
The altimeter read ten thousand feet. He asked, "Can I sort of toss it around a little?"
Lipton chuckled. "You're flying, and I have a strong stomach."
Rick kicked the plane over and let it drop, saw the Nevada mountains rushing up to meet him. He leveled off and pulled into a tight turn, much as he might turn the Sky Wagon. G forces slammed him into the bucket seat and the world went gray as blood drained from his head.
"Let up," Lipton snapped.
Rick corrected groggily. Wow! He had forgotten that power had its limitations, too. A tight turn meant pulling too many G's—too many times the force of gravity—for safety. "Sorry," he said huskily.
"It's all right. Feel your way."
Rick did so, for an ecstatic ten minutes, then, realizing that time was moving and he was burning fuel at a terrific rate, he asked reluctantly, "What now, sir?"
"Let's go home," Lipton said calmly.
Landing was the tricky part. He hurriedly read through the landing checkoff list, then started in. Flaps, throttle setting. Then, wheels down and locked. Air speed correct.
"Better keep flying speed," he thought grimly. "This bucket has the gliding angle of a brick."
For a moment habit almost fouled him up again, as he waited for the plane to "sell out," then he remembered that he had to fly it in. With an anxious eye on his air-speed indicator he gave it a little more throttle, then felt the struts compress as the wheels hit. He chopped the throttle and tried out the brakes with tender care. He didn't intend to flip them over through carelessness now. Gradually he brought the jet to a halt, reset flaps, and then rolled the plane back to their starting point. After he had killed the engine he just sat there, too limp to move. Then, slowly, and with vast relief, he started to get up.
Jerry Lipton, who had climbed out on the wing, reached over and put a hand on his shoulder. "Where are you going?"
Rick looked up in surprise. "I was getting out, sir."
"Stay put. I'm getting out. You're going for another ride."
He asked weakly, "Right now, sir?"
"No time like the present," Lipton said. He grinned. "How did you like it?"
Rick returned the grin. "I guess you know the answer to that."
"I guess I do. It was a good flight, Rick. You only let your normal habits get in the way twice, and you corrected fast both times. Keep your helmet on now. I'll be talking to you from the blockhouse in five minutes."
It was less than that. Apparently Dick Earle and the staff had the control circuits warmed and ready.
Lipton's voice came through the phones. "Visual take-off, Rick. The radar will pick you up at five hundred feet. I may overcontrol a little until I'm used to the equipment, but don't let it bother you. Do not take control yourself unless I give the word. There is one exception. If we lose communication in anyway, take over at once and bring it in. Now, repeat back."
"I will not take over controls, except on order from you. If communications fail, I will assume control at once and land the plane."
"Correct. Now, switch on. Start 'er up."
Rick did so.
"Release all controls and sit back. I am now controlling."
"Roger. Controls are all yours."
Servomotors held the brakes and advanced the throttle. The plane turned and taxied to the end of the runway. Rick sat there, trying not to feel uneasy. Just the same, it was weird to realize that Jerry was handling the plane from within the blockhouse.
"Take off. Here goes."
The roar increased and the plane picked up speed. Rick marveled as it lifted smoothly and the wheels retracted. Then, almost before he realized it, the plane had climbed and the earphones emitted, "I have lost visual contact. You are now under control by radarscope."
The jet climbed rapidly, then started through a series of maneuvers. Rick began to enjoy it. But the flight was almost over. "I'm bringing you in," the pilot said.
The plane turned, leveled, and the throttle was retarded. The nose dropped, in perfect alignment with the runway.
"You're off the scope and I have you on visual contact. Have faith, boy. You're almost home."
Rick braced himself and waited for the shock of landing. There was none. The jet skimmed along the runway, touched wheels, and settled so smoothly he couldn't have said exactly when the plane touched down.
Lipton, Earle, and the staff came hurrying from the blockhouse. Rick climbed down, pulling the helmet off hair that was swimming-wet with perspiration.
Now the brains for winged horse had been tried and proved. Rick looked at the great rocket, almost hidden by the crane and its equipment. Soon, he thought. Soon Pegasus would make the payoff flight!
Pegasus was ready.
The dry run was over and only the final checkout remained.
At zero minus sixteen hours Rick stood at the base of the huge rocket and looked up, studying every inch of it. He knew he would never have the opportunity again.
About fifty feet up he could make out the smooth, stainless-steel connecting ring where the second stage joined the first. Explosive bolts, set off by one of the electronic circuits, would blow the stages apart. The second stage, still carrying the final stage, would accelerate away on its own motors until they, too, had consumed all available fuel. Again, explosive bolts would destroy the connection and the final stage would be on its own. The motors would flare briefly, providing less than a minute's acceleration, then the final stage would coast on its momentum to maximum altitude nearly three hundred miles above the earth.
Not until the final stage started its downward plunge would Jerry Lipton take over. His job, then, would be to control the plunging flight, to use up the excess of energy by maneuvering the rocket into the atmosphere and out, to prevent its burning up like a meteor. In slow, careful stages, he would let it come lower and lower, until most of its energy was used up. Then he would try to land it. The landing speed would be terrific—nearly a thousand miles an hour.
Gee-Gee Gould came up and stood beside him. "It's a beautiful thing, Rick. And it's ours. Yours, mine, Dick's, Frank's, Charlie's—it belongs to every one of the crew."
Rick knew. It was his rocket. If it worked, it would be because of the care and devotion with which he had done his job. He knew others felt the same, and they were equally right. All of them had built part of themselves into Pegasus.
If it worked . . . Of course it would work! He sought reassurance from Gee-Gee.
"It's going to be okay, isn't it?"
"Yes." Gee-Gee had no doubt. "Every piece of it has been checked and double-checked. Even the inner workings of the critical parts have been run and rerun. This is one rocket the Earthman never had a chance to sabotage."
Rick nodded. He felt that way, too. The entire rocket had been checked out by teams of never less than two. Each man checked the other's work and both had to agree that all was in perfect order before the piece was accepted and checked off. Each man had to account to a guard before he could go to work. The system was foolproof. Now only the ultimate steps remained, the final checks, the fueling, and at the very last, the placement of the tiny spacemonk in his specially designed carrier.
"Let's go," Gee-Gee said.
They mounted the elevator and were whisked upward to the final stage. Gee-Gee picked up his walkie-talkie from the rack. "Do you read me, Dick?"
"Go ahead, Gee-Gee."
"Tell Jerry to go through checkoff."
Rick and Gee-Gee stood on the ramp and looked down at the ridiculously tiny wings and watched the control surfaces move in response to Jerry's gentle touch on the controls within the blockhouse. The drone control was working perfectly. Rick felt a surge of pride. This particular part of Pegasus was his.
The two went into the confined space in the nose. It was circular, the structural members rising to a near-peak overhead. A radar unit blocked out the tip of the nose cone. Under the unit a heavy steel channel ran down to the side of the drone control. Fixed to the channel by heavy springs was a tiny chair, complete with straps. The chair was festooned with wires, unconnected for the moment. The wires terminated in instruments that would sense every action, every response of the spacemonk's body. The chair channel was pivoted, so the monk would always be upright.
At Gee-Gee's order, Jerry Lipton ran through the check procedures again. This time Rick and Gee-Gee carefully watched the functioning of each servomotor. Finally Gee-Gee announced that he was satisfied. Next step was to check the spacemonk's instruments' circuits.
Rick picked up a tiny stethoscope. It would be taped to the monk's body, held tightly to his heart. He traced the circuit to where it disappeared into the oscillator switch, then took the walkie-talkie. "Display on? Checking the stethoscope."
"Go ahead," Earle replied.
Rick held it to his own heart for a few minutes, then tapped on the bell with his forefinger.
"Looks good on the display," Dick's voice came back. "What did you hit it with—a hammer?"
"Finger," Rick said. "Let's take a temperature next." He found the thermocouple that would be attached to the marmoset's body, traced the circuit to the oscillator, then called, "Watch my own body heat." He tucked the sensing element under his armpit.
"Hotter than a pistol," Dick said.
"Why? Do I have a fever?"
"Not unless you're a monkey. Next?"
"Sphygmomanometer. And don't worry about the pronunciation. The blood-pressure cuff." He traced the circuit, then inflated the rubber and fabric cuff.
"You just had heart failure," Dick reported.
They continued work, checking the radar equipment, the photon counters, cameras, the temperature-sensing devices, and myriad other instruments. Each instrument would feed its information to the oscillator, through the measurand transmitter and into the telemetering circuit, traveling by radio circuit back to the blockhouse. In the blockhouse it would appear in several forms. The information from the marmoset's instruments would appear as a series of waves on continually moving strips of special paper, in a machine called the display.
Finally Rick and Gee-Gee left the nose section and started to work down. It was already dark outside. The nose section was finished. The cameraman had arrived and loaded the cameras and departed. Now it remained only to place Prince Machiavelli, which was among the very last things to be done. Rick had hoped to carry the little monk to his seat, but Frank Miller and Dr. Bond had been given that job. He and Gee-Gee would be too busy with last-minute checks.
Gee-Gee was hard to satisfy. He told a guard, "Watch the nose section. No one is authorized to enter now until the monk is placed at zero minus thirty minutes." Then he led Rick across the desert to the blockhouse.
There were sandwiches and coffee on a table near the door. They helped themselves, then went and stood behind Dick Earle, who was paired off with Charlie Kassick.
"Punch up the nose section," Gee-Gee requested.
Dick ticked off the circuits as he pressed the buttons. One by one the red lights switched to green. All were operating. Only then did Gee-Gee nod his satisfaction. "Okay, Rick. Let's get back to work. Most of it's done, but we still have some checking to do in the first and second stages."
As they mounted the crane again Rick looked up at the festooned cables that terminated in the nose cone. At the moment of firing, the cables would drop off. After that, Pegasus would be on its own.
It was after dawn when the two emerged from the final check. The fueling crews were already at work. The loud-speaker on the crane emitted, "The time is zero minus twenty-five."
Gee-Gee departed for the blockhouse. Rick started after him, then as he cleared the gate he saw Scotty. His pal was waiting patiently in the jeep.
"Just wanted you to know I'm standing by," Scotty said. "You'll be in the blockhouse, I suppose?"
"That's right. Where will you be?"
"Watching the warehouse. Luis is watching it now. I suppose some of the security boys are, too, but I haven't seen them." Scotty's eyes traveled up the great rocket. "It's a honey. Suppose the Earthman has got in his licks?"
Rick shook his head. "Positively not. It's been checked out from nose to fins, and guarded every minute."
Scotty started the jeep motor. "I'd better get out of here. Good luck." The jeep roared off.
Rick turned for a last look at close range, and his eyes traveled up and up, from the stabilizing fins past the wings to the nose cone. Pegasus was ready. Then, he suddenly realized, the nose hatchway was still ajar.
That was strange. Prince Machiavelli should be installed in his seat by now and the hatchway buttoned for take-off. Rick ran to the gate, exchanged his badge for the special badge, and hurried to the crane. He half expected Dr. Bond and Frank to appear in the hatchway, but neither did.
"I'd better see," he muttered.
"The time is zero minus fifteen," the speaker stated.
Rick went up the elevator, hurried up the last few steps, and swung the hatch open. He took the flashlight from his belt kit and swung it around the interior. Prince Machiavelli blinked at him from a cocoon of tapes and straps. The light hurt the monk's eyes. Rick clicked it off and moved to the little marmoset's side. He stroked the tiny head. Why wasn't the hatch locked? Someone must have forgotten something. He walked over and peered through one of the two thick glass ports, expecting to see someone coming up the crane, but there was no sign of Dr. Bond or Frank.
Then, as he turned, the hatchway swung shut. For an instant Rick thought it had closed of its own weight, then he heard the scrape of metal as it was dogged down. Suddenly frightened he crossed the little room and banged on it, but the thick metal gave no sound under his fists. He had to make more noise! He lifted the flashlight to bang it on the door, and in that moment there was a scream of metal from outside as the crane was pulled away. He was locked in! Locked in the rocket! And it was ready to fire!
Even through the rocket's walls the sound of motors and the creak of metal could be heard, and Rick knew that any slight noise he could make would never be noticed.
Frantic, he ran to the thick port and looked out. Surely there must be some way he could attract attention! The flashlight in his hand reminded him. He aimed it through the port and flashed a rapid SOS, SOS, SOS. Someone would see it! Someone must!
Frantically he flashed his SOS through the port, then ran to the other port and began flashing there. Why didn't someone respond? Everyone carried a flashlight. Why didn't someone think of signaling him that he had been seen?
He knew the answer. He hadn't been seen.
The flashlight picked out his wrist watch. It was now zero minus five! He stood at the port and kept flashing, his mind racing. Apparently whoever had closed the door hadn't known he was inside. His light hadn't been on at that moment. But it didn't make any difference now, because he was locked in from the outside. There was no way of opening the hatchway from inside.
Four minutes.
He had to think of something! Everyone was so occupied with last-minute details that probably no one was even looking at the rocket. Besides, it was light outdoors. His flashlight would be only a dim glow in the rising sunlight.
There had to be another way. He forced himself to calmness. Approach it logically, he told himself sternly. The way to do it is to signal the blockhouse.
He studied Prince Machiavelli, looking for a clue in the spacemonk's draping of instruments. He could tap on the bell of the stethoscope. But then he realized the display would not yet be rolling.
He had a quick vision of Dick Earle and Gee-Gee watching the master board, checking the circuit lights as they flicked from red to green. The board must be nearly all green now, he thought—and in the same instant he knew how he could attract attention.
Rick jumped to the center of the tiny room and crouched over the drone control. He removed the cover. There was one circuit that served only as a feed to the board, to show that the control was operative. Break that and the board would show red.
His flashlight probed the maze of wiring and he located the signal wire. Fishing into the spaghetti with his fingers, he got thumb and forefinger on it and tried to break it. The wire held.
He fumbled in his belt kit and found a pair of side-cutting pliers. They would do. He reached in and snipped the circuit wire, then he slumped down on the deck and mopped rivulets of water from his face.
Close! He glanced at his watch.
Zero minus two.
He grinned foolishly. This would be something to tell his grandchildren. Once, because of a silly mistake he came within two minutes of being the first spaceman!
Prince Machiavelli was looking down at him, the furry little face serious, like that of a very wise old owl. In the irregular light through the ports the tufted ears made the spacemonk look even more owl-like.
"At least I got you a little reprieve by saving my own skin," Rick said aloud. "Poor little guy."
The marmoset chirruped happily, glad of the human companionship.
Zero minus one minute.
Rick wasn't worried about the passage of time. Not until the drone circuit was thrown into operation in another thirty seconds would Gee-Gee and Dick realize that it wasn't functioning. A yell would stop Dr. Bernais, and the gantry would be wheeled back into place. Gee-Gee and Dick would probably come personally to check the circuit and find out why the board had shown red instead of switching to green.
Rick chuckled. What a surprise they'd get!
Fortunately, it would only take a few minutes to repair the signal wire and clear out. Pegasus would be a little late—perhaps fifteen minutes.
Again his thoughts turned to the awful moment when the hatchway closed. Now that he could think more calmly, he decided that whoever had closed the hatch hadn't known he was inside. The interior was gloomy, and he had switched his light off to keep it from shining in the marmoset's eyes.
He still couldn't be sure why the hatchway had been open, but in all probability Frank or Dr. Bond had simply gone down the gantry without closing it, not realizing until they were down that the team responsible for installing the spacemonk was also responsible for buttoning up.
There was no evidence of sabotage that he could see, so the open hatchway was nothing but the kind of mistake people make when working under extreme pressure.
Again he wondered about the identity of the Earthman. It was curious that no evidence of sabotage had been found in Orion, even though the theft of servomotors had taken place. Maybe, as Dr. Hiller had guessed, the picture left by the Earthman had been burned. Anyway, Pegasus was proof the Earthman wasn't infallible. This was one project he hadn't been able to sabotage.
His eye caught the glimmer of white on the bulkhead behind the spacemonk. He didn't remember that. He got up and walked over to it, peering to see in the dimness. Then he remembered his flashlight and focused the beam on the paper.
The blood drained from his head and he gasped. It was a sketch of a knight in armor, lance upraised, thrust through a winged rocket!
Rick let out a hoarse yell.
In the same instant he heard a whine, a rapidly accelerating whine. The pumps! The fuel pumps! The starting sequence had begun!
He looked at his watch, and saw that zero time was many seconds past. But surely his watch was wrong. The board was red! Wasn't anyone watching? He ran to the port and looked out at the deserted desert. He was alone in the great rocket, and the fuel pumps were going. He could almost picture the stream of boron hydride blending with the oxidizer and flowing in an ever-increasing stream toward the combustion chamber. He heard the scrape as the instrument cable dropped away outside.
Pegasus roared!
And Rick knew. He knew that somehow he had failed, that the board showed green!
Rick had no time to think. He reacted. He pulled off the jacket he had worn against the chill of the desert night, and rolled it tightly. He dropped to the deck and stretched flat on his back, the jacket tucked under the back of his head and neck.
He put his hands flat on the deck and sensed the increasing shudder of the great rocket. It was building thrust! Fuel poured into the combustion chamber and fantastically hot exhaust gases flared from the motor exhaust. And with each passing second thrust built up inside the motor chamber.
When the thrust exceeded the rocket's weight, Pegasus would take off!
He knew it wouldn't be long. Seconds more.
The entire rocket screamed as vibration ran in torturing waves through its metal skeleton and skin. It passed the point of discomfort and became unbearable. Rick rocked his head from side to side, as though to get rid of the shattering howl, but it tore at his head, at his stomach, at his very skin.
He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again he saw that Prince Machiavelli had moved, downward. The powerful springs that held his little chair were lengthening.
Air-borne!
Rick became conscious of weight. He was being pressed into the metal deck by a mighty hand. It was hard to breathe.
Pegasus was not designed to accommodate humans. No attention had been paid to limits of human endurance. It was all right for the marmoset; his spring chair would take up much of the G forces. But Rick had no padding at all, except for the thin jacket under his head. He had no support but the metal deck, and before this was over his body would be terribly distorted as forces many times gravity rammed him relentlessly into the metal.
In spite of the horrifying scream of the rocket and the increasing pressure, his mind was clear. The rocket was programmed to reach twelve G during first-stage flight—twelve times the force of gravity!
First-stage flight would last slightly over three minutes. By then, Pegasus would be nearly thirty miles up.
The pain began, the pain of tortured muscles and organs pressed slowly, inexorably toward the deck as acceleration built up. Rick wanted to turn over, at least to change the direction of pain, but he couldn't even do that. He was spread-eagled on the deck now, his muscles unable to move his increased weight.
Consciousness began to slip from him, and he fought against it. He had to remain alive! He was going to!
For a brief moment he succeeded, then the grayness moved in like an all-encompassing curtain.
Pegasus climbed into the blue sky, arrow-straight, still accelerating. The seconds ticked away. For an instant, the accelerometer hovered at twelve G, and slipped toward thirteen.
Rick was five feet, ten inches tall, and his weight was a constant hundred and sixty pounds. The rocket reached maximum acceleration, 12.6g, and for that instant Rick weighed 2,016 pounds—slightly over one ton!
Then . . . all burnt, fuel exhausted, the first-stage motor stopped.
The explosive bolts went into action. There was an explosion that made itself felt in the skin of the rocket, and the grinding of metal as the first stage detached.
Rick's battered brains swam back to consciousness. For an instant he couldn't recall what had happened, then he realized he had survived the first-stage acceleration. He was in bad shape, he knew. The salt taste in his mouth was blood, and he was breathing bubbles of blood through internal damage in his nose or lungs. But there wasn't time for inventory. The aching silence was lost as the second stage fired. Acceleration built again. This time Rick slipped into the enveloping grayness almost at once. The acceleration was less, and the time of burning was less. Had he not been put through the torture of first-stage acceleration he could have taken the second stage without more than great discomfort. But now he had little resistance left.
He came back to consciousness again as the second stage cut off. In the welcome silence he found time to be thankful he was still alive, even though it might be a temporary thing. He looked up at Prince Machiavelli through bloodshot eyes and couldn't see the little monk. For a terrible instant he thought he was blind, then he saw a glimmer of light through the port. It was the sun. The rocket was in the wrong position to catch it directly, however, and the atmosphere was far too thin to scatter light.
He heard the second stage explode off and tried to brace himself for the final acceleration. He made himself think. He was in a spot, a very bad spot. The Earthman had sabotaged the flight. But how? The first two stages had worked. Even if the third-stage motor never fired, the rocket was high enough to prove out the project objective.
There was only one answer. Even to his fogged brain it was clear that the drone control had been sabotaged by the Earthman. Otherwise cutting the signal wire would have kept the board from showing green. Somehow, the signal wire had been bypassed, to keep the operators from knowing the drone control was inoperative.
The final stage fired and acceleration began once more. Rick fought it. He tried to ignore the pain of the crushing, distorting weight and tried to keep his mind on the problem. He failed.
Pegasus was no longer traveling straight out from earth now. The gimbaled rocket motor swung slightly to one side and the rocket's trajectory flattened. As it swung on the new course, sunlight glanced in through the open port and into Rick's open, sightless eyes.
It was raw sunlight, unfiltered by the atmosphere. It was sunlight no human had ever seen before. Even in his semiconscious state Rick realized the danger and managed to shut his eyes. The sunlight seemed to burn through the lids, to scorch the insides of his head. Then the rocket moved along its new trajectory slightly and the merciless beam shifted, blazed on the sketch of a knight in armor impaling Pegasus with his lance.
Rick realized dimly that the terrible light was gone. He opened his eyes and saw the spacemonk. It was as though someone had drawn layer after layer of gauze between the boy and the marmoset, but he understood that Prince Machiavelli was still alive, and in far better shape than he was.
The vibrating, paralyzing scream of the rocket suddenly cut off. Silence flooded in.
End of burning for stage three!
Pegasus had altered course slightly, in response to its pre-set mechanisms. Now it was on a course that would take it to the maximum point into space, but at the same time would keep it over Scarlet Lake. For a few minutes more it would coast on its momentum, slowing constantly until it reached maximum altitude. Then, briefly, it would hesitate.
Momentum used up, earth's gravity would again assume control. The rocket would slip back, tail first, slowly, slowly, then faster and faster, beginning the long, final plunge to the ground.