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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Latent Image
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and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
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you are located before using this eBook.
Language: English
Illustrated by Orban
From what was obviously three different parts of the ship, three
voices answered.
Pete arrived first. "Meet John McBride of the Plutonian Lens,"
introduced Hammond. "This is Pete, whose whole name is Peter
Thurman, and who is the guy who knows all about drive equipment."
Pete grinned. "You see us hitting sky at two hundred feet per," he
said, shaking McBride's hand.
Jimmy arrived, with Larry not far behind. "These are James Wilson
and Lawrence Timkins, respectively. Jimmy is the alphatron expert,
and Larry knows all there is to know about electrical circuits and
wiring."
"He's ribbing me about those relays," laughed Larry, while Jimmy was
saying: "Y'smell that smell? That was my pride and joy."
"Tell me," asked McBride, "what does he do?"
"Who, Steve? Oh he's just the bird that wanted the things done that
resulted in this mess. He's primarily responsible."
"Hm-m-m. That puts the fix on the whole thing," said McBride. "Well,
fellow, you've heard about Enid. I've got to get home. If we can fake
up something so that the Haywire Queen will cut loose with a couple
of hundred feet per for long enough to get me to Station 1, I'll see that
your ruined equipment is replaced so that you can make a safe
landing. Say! How come you do not carry a spare alphatron?"
"Why doesn't man come with two hearts?" asked Jimmy. "That's
because they're usually dependable. No one ever tried to run two
brains off of one heart—that's why one heart stands up pretty well. I
can imagine the trouble that would result if two involuntary control
centers were running the same heart—it would be something like
what happened when the mech-grav made the E-grav cut in—
something would blow a fuse."
They laughed, and then Hammond explained about the program.
"Right away quick we'll try the mech-grav along with the mag-grav.
That sounds like our best bet for something that works. Also breach
the lifeship and sabotage the little alphatron for the mech-grav. Might
as well have it down here where it's needed." In an aside to McBride,
he added: "Is this like your place? No fuses, no safety devices, no
spare equipment because some screwball is always filching
something off of a bit of standard equipment to make an experimental
set-up?"
"Anything but the running and operating gear of the Lens stations,"
said McBride, "is subject to change without notice. I've even seen a
spare mech-grav generator used to counterbalance Jim Lear's teeter-
totter. Jim's dad is on Station 3 and there isn't any kid of that size and
age on Three. Did a good job, too, since Bob Lear fixed the mech-
grav density control with a switch that urged the far end of the plank
so that Jim was lifted and dropped at the right speed."
"Sort of expensive counterbalance, wasn't it?"
"I suppose so, but Bob said it was better than having to crank his son
up and down by hand. Besides, we have lots of power out at the
Lens." McBride paused. "Say. Do you run the Haywire Queen with
this crew? Who's pilot?"
"Hannigan. But he got hurt when the works blew up. He ran us in all
right, though any of us can take a trick at landing. But he's taking a
rest cure to soothe his nerves; they got a scrambling from too much
electricity."
"Too bad."
"Not 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, I'll 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
workbench. 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 red-
head. "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 experimental 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 trusting to an experiment made several years ago but abandoned."
"I think I'll 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 Hammond, 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 mind 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. "I'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. Will you need navigational details?"
"I can work them out."
Drake left, and the men put the finishing touches on the double-warp
set-up. Hammond turned the equipment on, running them at test
power while Jimmy and McBride adjusted the generators for
maximum output.
Pete inspected the myriad of little glowing lights on the informer panel
and said that the ship was working properly from dome to foot.
"Grab a rolling chair," said Hammond to McBride. Then he snapped
the communicator and said: "Drake. Up at twenty feet per."
"Up at twenty feet per second per second acceleration," responded
Sandra in that flat, personless voice.
"We hope," said Steve with a short laugh.