F.S.S. Western Hemisphere without MacKeltish." He fixed Old Ironpants with a brave, resolute, confident gaze.
"You are certain of that, Sergeant?" Old Ironpants asked with ominous deliberation.
"Deadly certain, sir," said Shane. If he wasn't certain he'd be better off dead.
"Very well then," said Old Ironpants. "I'll suspend judgment on you men until the case is investigated later. In the meantime I'll not protest the race. If your certainty that we'll win without MacKeltish is correct, then those ruffians from the Saturn will have the punishment of losing as extra payment for their rotten trick."
A pretty speech. All of which meant that Old Ironpants wasn't taking any chances. If we lost the race, he'd invalidate it on the grounds that MacKeltish was abducted. The investigation that would result would land Shane, myself and the six space tars in the brig for the better part of our miserable lives. But if we won, Old Ironpants would be that much richer, would have saved the honor of the F.S.S. Western Hemisphere, and would sagely forgive us our sins.
He didn't have a thing to lose.
Shane and I had plenty. It was all I could think of in the hour that followed. The hour during which preparations were made for the great and long awaited lifecraft race between the prize crews of the Saturn and the Western Hemisphere.
JAUNTILY, as if he didn't have a thing in the world to bother him, Shane resumed his charge of our prize crew. He had picked another man at the last minute to substitute for MacKeltish, a big, beetle-browed marine named Woonsocket. He'd have to do.
Then at last our lifecraft was lowered over the side, and the prize crew of the F.S.S. Western Hemisphere clambered in to the loud cheers of their shipmates. Shane was coxswain.
Several hundred yards across the space harbor cheers rolled from the decks of the F.S.S. Saturn. She was lowering her space lifecraft, plus prize crew, over the side.[1]
The course was laid out over two miles, from one end of the space harbor to the other. Both boats were to start at the same time from the same end, and the lifecraft crossing the finish line first took the laurels.
And in less than ten minutes both space lifecraft were lined up waiting for the atomic cannon that would blast forth the signal to get going.
I had a good vantage point on the rail of the Western Hemisphere from which to watch the battle. They'd cleared a lane almost a mile wide, and aside from the atomic motored judging space launch which was to follow the progress of the two boats, no other space craft were permitted on the course.
The judging space launch was on our side of the cleared course. That is to
- ↑ Space lifecraft are small ships not more than twelve feet in width and not longer than twenty feet from stem to stern.They hold a top capacity of ten men, being strictly emergency vessels. They are run by sheer, old-fashioned man power. When atomic motors and rocket power turbines go out of commission, they are really sort of human rocket boats. For there are eight small "pump handles" regularly distributed along the sides of the craft. Each of these "pumps" leads to a rocket that pipes out the bottom of the boat. When the pump is worked rapidly up and down, old-fashioned air pressure is generated in a minor rocket puff that shoots out the bottom and propels the craft along. When all eight pumps are being worked, a fair amount of "rocket" exertion can be created to give the boat some speed, which is, of course, constant when achieved.They've saved plenty of lives in space which would otherwise have been lost when atomic motors failed, or rockets jammed.—Ed.
