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Spacewarp, v. 5, issue 5, whole no. 27, June 1949
Page 8
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Hours passed. The acceleration caused his muscles to ache and he took a pill to relieve the tension. The halfway point was reached after about twelve hours of flight. He cut the engines. The acceleration stopped. He almost vomited as every nerve in his body revolted against the sudden change. It was now necessary to turn the ship around and decelerate in to Mars. Mackintosh turned the rockets on to steering power and, after giving them time to get going, spun the small wheel which would adjust a vane in the jet stream to turn the ship. He glued his eyes on the bank-and-turn indicator. It didn't budge. Frantically he sought the vane position indicator. The vane was perfectly straight. Sudden realization of his predicament came on him and shut off the jet although he fully knew the futility of the action. He could never decelerate enough in the few short hours remaining before the ship would be caught by Mars' gravitational field. Mackintosh laughed hideously, laughed in a way that would have made even Upperberth's blood run cold. Here he was plunging toward Mars at a speed of several thousand miles per hour and there was nothing -- absolutely nothing -- that he could possibly do to stop himself. "Meow," said the mouse sticking its head out from under the control panel. * * * In the drifting bubble-ship, a being in glittering uniform watched the radar pips and meter-readings that told of Mackintosh's voyage. He commented in a low voice to a companion now and then. As the breakdown on Mackintosh's ship became apparent to the watchers, they bent forward with sudden interest. "It looks like their first try at space flight will have an unhappy ending," one remarked. "It usually does, on these Stage Four planets," the other answered. "Of course this one will fail, but they'll be bound to try again. And those who are trying to prevent the flights can't be successful all the time. But the point that concerns us is that they've gotten a manned ship beyond atmosphere. That makes all planets of this star eligible for contact. So we might as well get going. With nine of 'em, and probably all inhabited -- they usually are -- it will be a long job. "Okay, that's what we're here for," the second said. "Which do you want to try first? But in spite of that space ship, I maintain none of these planets are ready for contact. Did you see the reports of the latest close-range survey the disc-ships made?" The leader shrugged his shoulders. "Orders are orders. Let's try the one called 'Earth' first. Technically, it deserves priority anyhow, since the ship came from there." He touched a colored spot on the panel before him and the bubble-ship drifted swiftly toward the green globe of Earth. * * * "Meow," said the mouse a second time. Had his mind been a bit clearer, Mackintosh would probably have ignored the sound. As it was the impulse slid past that barrier intended to filter out ordinary stimuli and brought the pilot to acute awareness of the fact that mice weren't supposed to say "Meow." He spun around. 8
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Hours passed. The acceleration caused his muscles to ache and he took a pill to relieve the tension. The halfway point was reached after about twelve hours of flight. He cut the engines. The acceleration stopped. He almost vomited as every nerve in his body revolted against the sudden change. It was now necessary to turn the ship around and decelerate in to Mars. Mackintosh turned the rockets on to steering power and, after giving them time to get going, spun the small wheel which would adjust a vane in the jet stream to turn the ship. He glued his eyes on the bank-and-turn indicator. It didn't budge. Frantically he sought the vane position indicator. The vane was perfectly straight. Sudden realization of his predicament came on him and shut off the jet although he fully knew the futility of the action. He could never decelerate enough in the few short hours remaining before the ship would be caught by Mars' gravitational field. Mackintosh laughed hideously, laughed in a way that would have made even Upperberth's blood run cold. Here he was plunging toward Mars at a speed of several thousand miles per hour and there was nothing -- absolutely nothing -- that he could possibly do to stop himself. "Meow," said the mouse sticking its head out from under the control panel. * * * In the drifting bubble-ship, a being in glittering uniform watched the radar pips and meter-readings that told of Mackintosh's voyage. He commented in a low voice to a companion now and then. As the breakdown on Mackintosh's ship became apparent to the watchers, they bent forward with sudden interest. "It looks like their first try at space flight will have an unhappy ending," one remarked. "It usually does, on these Stage Four planets," the other answered. "Of course this one will fail, but they'll be bound to try again. And those who are trying to prevent the flights can't be successful all the time. But the point that concerns us is that they've gotten a manned ship beyond atmosphere. That makes all planets of this star eligible for contact. So we might as well get going. With nine of 'em, and probably all inhabited -- they usually are -- it will be a long job. "Okay, that's what we're here for," the second said. "Which do you want to try first? But in spite of that space ship, I maintain none of these planets are ready for contact. Did you see the reports of the latest close-range survey the disc-ships made?" The leader shrugged his shoulders. "Orders are orders. Let's try the one called 'Earth' first. Technically, it deserves priority anyhow, since the ship came from there." He touched a colored spot on the panel before him and the bubble-ship drifted swiftly toward the green globe of Earth. * * * "Meow," said the mouse a second time. Had his mind been a bit clearer, Mackintosh would probably have ignored the sound. As it was the impulse slid past that barrier intended to filter out ordinary stimuli and brought the pilot to acute awareness of the fact that mice weren't supposed to say "Meow." He spun around. 8
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