THE GREEN HILLS OF EARTH

Twenty seconds ... across the chronometer's face beads of light trickled the seconds away while he tensed, ready to fire by hand, or even to disconnect and refuse the trip if his judgment told him to. A too-cautious decision might cause Lloyds' to cancel his bond; a reckless decision could cost his license or even his life – and others.

But he was not thinking of underwriters and licenses, nor even of lives. In truth he was not thinking at all; he was feeling, feeling his ship, as if his nerve ends extended into every part of her. Five seconds ... the safety disconnects clicked out. Four seconds ... three seconds ... two seconds ... ... … one —

He was stabbing at the hand-fire button when the roar hit him.

Kelly relaxed to the pseudo-gravity of the blast and watched. Pemberton was soberly busy, scanning dials, noting time, checking his progress by radar bounced off Supra-New York. Weinstein's figures, robot-pilot, the ship itself, all were clicking together.

Minutes later, the critical instant neared when the robot should cut the jets. Pemberton poised a finger over the hand cut-off, while splitting his attention among radarscope, accelerometer, periscope, and chronometer. One instant they were roaring along on the jets; the next split second the ship was in free orbit, plunging silently toward the Moon. So perfectly matched were human and robot that Pemberton himself did not know which had cut the power.

He glanced again at the board, then unbuckled. «How about that cigarette, Captain? And you can let your passengers unstrap.»

No co-pilot is needed in space and most pilots would rather share a toothbrush than a control room. The pilot works about an hour at blast off, about the same before contact, and loafs during free flight, save for routine checks and corrections. Pemberton prepared to spend one hundred and four hours eating, reading, writing letters, and sleeping – especially sleeping.

When the alarm woke him, he checked the ship's position, then wrote to his wife. «Phyllis my dear,» he began, «I don't blame you for being upset at missing your night out. I was disappointed, too. But bear with me, darling, I should be on a regular run before long. In less than ten years I'll be up for retirement and we'll have a chance to catch up on bridge and golf and things like that. I know it's pretty hard to – »

The voice circuit cut in. «Oh, Jake – put on your company face. I'm bringing a visitor to the control room.»

«No visitors in the control room, Captain.»

«Now, Jake. This lunkhead has a letter from Old Man Harriman himself. 'Every possible courtesy – ' and so forth.»

Pemberton thought quickly. He could refuse – but there was no sense in offending the big boss. «Okay, Captain. Make it short.»

The visitor was a man, jovial, oversize – Jake figured him for an eighty pound weight penalty. Behind him a thirteen-year-old male counterpart came zipping through the door and lunged for the control console. Pemberton snagged him by the arm and forced himself to speak pleasantly. «Just hang on to that bracket, youngster. I don't want you to bump your head.»

«Leggo me! Pop – make him let go.»

Kelly cut in. «I think he had best hang on, Judge.»

«Umm, uh – very well. Do as the Captain says, Junior.»

«Aw, gee, Pop!»

«Judge Schacht, this is First Pilot Pemberton,» Kelly said rapidly. «He'll show you around.»

«Glad to know you, Pilot. Kind of you, and all that.»

«What would you like to see, Judge?» Jake said carefully. «Oh, this and that. It's for the boy – his first trip. I'm an old spacehound myself – probably more hours than half our crew.» He laughed. Pemberton did not.

«There's not much to see in free flight.»

«Quite all right. We'll just make ourselves at home – eh, Captain?»

«I wanna sit in the control seat,» Schacht Junior announced. Pemberton winced. Kelly said urgently, «Jake, would you mind outlining the control system for the boy? Then we'll go.»

«He doesn't have to show me anything. I know all about it. I'm a Junior Rocketeer of America – see my button?» The boy shoved himself toward the control desk.

Pemberton grabbed him, steered him into the pilot's chair, and strapped him in. He then flipped the board's disconnect. «Whatcha doing?»

«I cut off power to the controls so I could explain them.»

«Aintcha gonna fire the jets?»

«No.» Jake started a rapid description of the use and purpose of each button, dial, switch, meter, gimmick, and scope. Junior squirmed. «How about meteors?» he demanded.

«Oh, that – maybe one collision in half a million Earth-Moon trips. Meteors are scarce.»

«So what? Say you hit the jackpot? You're in the soup.»

«Not at all. The anti-collision radar guards all directions five hundred miles out. If anything holds a steady bearing for three seconds, a direct hook-up starts the jets. First a warning gong so that everybody can grab something solid, then one second later – Boom! – We get out of there fast.»

«Sounds corny to me. Lookee, I'll show you how Commodore Cartwright did it in The Comet Busters — »