THE GREEN HILLS OF EARTH

«Okay.» Pemberton returned sadly to his figures, hoping to find a saving mistake, then thought better of it. He called the radio room. «Get me Weinstein at Supra-New York.»

«Out of normal range.»

«I know that. This is the Pilot. Safety priority – urgent. Get a tight beam on them and nurse it.»

«Uh ... aye aye, sir. I'll try.»

Weinstein was doubtful. «Gripes, Jake, I can't pilot you.»

«Dammit, you can work problems for me!»

«What good is seven-place accuracy with bum data?»

«Sure, sure. But you know what instruments I've got; you know about how well I can handle them. Get me a better answer.»

«I'll try.» Weinstein called back four hours later. «Jake? Here's the dope: You planned to blast back to match your predicted speed, then make side corrections for position. Orthodox but uneconomical. Instead I had Mabel solve for it as one maneuver.»

«Good!»

«Not so fast. It saves fuel but not enough. You can't possibly get back in your old groove and then match Terminal without dumping.»

Pemberton let it sink in, then said, «I'll tell Kelly.»

«Wait a minute, Jake. Try this. Start from scratch.»

«Huh?»

«Treat it as a brand-new problem. Forget about the orbit on your tape. With your present course, speed, and position, compute the cheapest orbit to match with Terminal's. Pick a new groove.»

Pemberton felt foolish. «I never thought of that.»

«Of course not. With the ship's little one-lung calculator it'd take you three weeks to solve it. You set to record?»

«Sure.»

«Here's your data.» Weinstein started calling it off.

When they had checked it, Jake said, «That'll get me there?»

«Maybe. If the data you gave me is up to your limit of accuracy; if you can follow instructions as exactly as a robot, if you can blast off and make contact so precisely that you don't need side corrections, then you might squeeze home. Maybe. Good luck, anyhow.» The wavering reception muffled their goodbyes.

Jake signaled Kelly. «Don't jettison, Captain. Have your passengers strap down. Stand by to blast. Minus fourteen minutes.»

«Very well, Pilot.»

The new departure made and checked, he again had time to spare. He took out his unfinished letter, read it, then tore it up.

«Dearest Phyllis,» he started again, «I've been doing some hard thinking this trip and have decided that I've just been stubborn. What am I doing way out here? I like my home. I like to see my wife.

«Why should I risk my neck and your peace of mind to herd junk through the sky? Why hang around a telephone waiting to chaperone fatheads to the Moon – numbskulls who couldn't pilot a rowboat and should have stayed at home in the first place?

«Money, of course. I've been afraid to risk a change. I won't find another job that will pay half as well, but, if you are game, I'll ground myself and we'll start over. All my love,

«Jake»

He put it away and went to sleep, to dream that an entire troop of Junior Rocketeers had been quartered in his control room.

The close-up view of the Moon is second only to the space-side view of the Earth as a tourist attraction; nevertheless Pemberton insisted that all passengers strap down during the swing around to Terminal. With precious little fuel for the matching maneuver, he refused to hobble his movements to please sightseers.

Around the bulge of the Moon, Terminal came into sight – by radar only, for the ship was tail foremost. After each short braking blast Pemberton caught a new radar fix, then compared his approach with a curve he had plotted from Weinstein's figures – with one eye on the time, another on the 'scope, a third on the plot, and a fourth on his fuel gauges.

«Well, Jake?» Kelly fretted. «Do we make it?»

«How should I know? You be ready to dump.» They had agreed on liquid oxygen as the cargo to dump, since it could be let to boil out through the outer valves, without handling.

«Don't say it, Jake.»

«Damn it – I won't if I don't have to.» He was fingering his controls again; the blast chopped off his words. When it stopped, the radio maneuvering circuit was calling him.

»Flying Dutchman , Pilot speaking,» Jake shouted back.

«Terminal Control – Supra reports you short on fuel.»

«Right.»

«Don't approach. Match speeds outside us. We'll send a transfer ship to refuel you and pick up passengers.»

«I think I can make it.»

«Don't try it. Wait for refueling.»

«Quit telling me how to pilot my ship!» Pemberton switched off the circuit, then stared at the board, whistling morosely. Kelly filled in the words in his mind: «Casey said to the fireman, 'Boy, you better jump, cause two locomotives are agoing to bump!' »

«You going in the slip anyhow, Jake?»

«Mmm – no, blast it. I can't take a chance of caving in the side of Terminal, not with passengers aboard. But I'm not going to match speeds fifty miles outside and wait for a piggyback.»