Space Platform by Murray Leinster (miss read books .txt) 📗

have to be replaced and of those that needed to be repaired. The discoveries they made would have appalled Joe earlier. Now he merely made notes of parts necessary to be replaced by new ones that could be had within the repair time for rebalancing the rotors.

“This is sure a mess,” said Haney mournfully, as they worked. “It’s two days just getting things cleaned up!”

The Chief eyed the rotors. There were two of them, great four-foot disks with extraordinary short and stubby shafts that were brought to beautifully polished conical ends to fit in the bearings. The bearings were hollowed to fit the shaft ends, but they were intricately scored to form oil channels. In operation, a very special silicone oil would be pumped into the bearings under high pressure. Distributed by the channels, the oil would form a film that by its pressure would hold the cone end of the bearing away from actual contact with the metal. The rotors, in fact, would be floated in oil just as the high-speed centrifuge the Chief had mentioned had floated on compressed air. But they had to be perfectly balanced, because any imbalance would make the shaft pierce the oil film and touch the metal of the bearing—and when a shaft is turning at 40,000 r.p.m. it is not good for it to touch anything. Shaft and bearing would burn white-hot in fractions of a second and there would be several devils to pay.

“We’ve got to spin it in a lathe,” said the Chief profoundly, “to hold the chucks. The chucks have got to be these same bearings, because nothing else will stand the speed. And we got to cut out the bed plate of any lathe [Pg 70]we find. Hm. We got to do our spinning with the shaft lined up with the earth’s axis, too.”

Mike nodded wisely, and Joe knew he’d pointed that out. It was true enough. A high-speed gyro could only be run for minutes in one single direction if its mount were fixed. If a precisely mounted gyro had its shaft pointed at the sun, for example, while it ran, its axis would try to follow the sun. It would try not to turn with the earth, and it would wreck itself. They had to use the cone bearings, but in order to protect the fine channellings for oil they’d have to use cone-shaped shims at the beginning while running at low speed. The cone ends of the shaft would need new machining to line them up. The bearings had to be fixed, yet flexible. The——

They had used many paper napkins the night before, merely envisioning these details. New problems turned up as the apparatus itself was being uncovered and cleaned.

They worked for hours, clearing away soot and charred material. Joe’s list of small parts to be replaced from the home plant was as long as his arm. The motors, of course, had to be scrapped and new ones substituted. Considering their speed—the field strength at operating rate was almost imperceptible—they had to be built new, which would mean round-the-clock work at Kenmore.

A messenger came for Joe. The security office wanted him. Major Holt’s gloomy secretary did not even glance up as he entered. Major Holt himself looked tired.

“There was a man out there,” he said curtly. “I think it is your friend Braun. I’ll get you to look and identify.”

Joe had suspected as much. He waited.

“He’d opened a container of cobalt powder. It was in a beryllium case. There was half a pound of it. It killed him.”

“Radioactive cobalt,” said Joe.

“Definitely,” said the Major grimly. “Half a pound of it gives off the radiation of an eighth of a ton of pure radium. One can guess that he had been instructed to get up as high as he could in the Shed and dump the powder into the air. It would diffuse—scatter as it sifted down. It would [Pg 71]have contaminated the whole Shed past all use for years—let alone killing everybody in it.”

Joe swallowed.

“He was burned, then.”

“He had the equivalent of two hundred and fifty pounds of radium within inches of his body,” the Major said unbendingly, “and naturally it was not healthy. For that matter, the container itself was not adequate protection for him. Once he’d carried it in his pocket for a very few minutes, he was a dead man, even though he was not conscious of the fact.”

Joe knew what was wanted of him.

“You want me to look at him,” he said.

The Major nodded.

“Yes. Afterward, get a radiation check on yourself. It is hardly likely that he was—ah—carrying the stuff with him last night, in Bootstrap. But if he was—ah—you may need some precautionary treatment—you and the men who were with you.”

Joe realized what that meant. Braun had been given a relatively small container of the deadliest available radioactive material on Earth. Milligrams of it, shipped from Oak Ridge for scientific use, were encased in thick lead chests. He’d carried two hundred and fifty grams in a container he could put in his pocket. He was not only dead as he walked, under such circumstances. He was also death to those who walked near him.

“Somebody else may have been burned in any case,” said the Major detachedly. “I am going to issue a radioactivity alarm and check every man in Bootstrap for burns. It is—ah—very likely that the man who delivered it to this man is burned, too. But you will not mention this, of course.”

He waved his hand in dismissal. Joe turned to go. The Major added grimly: “By the way, there is no doubt about the booby-trapping of planes. We’ve found eight, so far, ready to be crashed when a string was pulled while they were serviced. But the men who did the booby-trapping [Pg 72]have vanished. They disappeared suddenly during last night. They were warned! Have you talked to anybody?”

“No sir,” said Joe.

“I would like to know,” said the Major coldly, “how they knew we’d found out their trick!”

Joe went out. He felt very cold at the pit of his stomach. He was to identify Braun. Then he was to get a radiation check on himself. In that order of events. He was to identify Braun first, because if Braun had carried a half-pound of radioactive cobalt on him in Sid’s Steak Joint the night before, Joe was going to die. And so were Haney and the Chief and Mike, and anybody else who’d passed near him. So Joe was to do the identification before he was disturbed by the information that he was dead.

He made the identification. Braun was very decently laid out in a lead-lined box, with a lead-glass window over his face. There was no sign of any injury on him except from his fight with Haney. The radiation burns were deep, but they’d left no marks of their own. He’d died before outer symptoms could occur.

Joe signed the identification certificate. He went to be checked for his own chances of life. It was a peculiar sensation. The most peculiar was that he wasn’t afraid. He was neither confident that he was not burned inside, nor sure that he was. He simply was not afraid. Nobody really ever believes that he is going to die—in the sense of ceasing to exist. The most arrant coward, stood before a wall to be shot, or strapped in an electric chair, finds that astoundingly he does not believe that what happens to his body is going to kill him, the individual. That is why a great many people die with reasonable dignity. They know it is not worth making too much of a fuss over.

But when the Geiger counters had gone over him from head to foot, and his body temperature was normal, and his reflexes sound—when he was assured that he had not been exposed to dangerous radiation—Joe felt distinctly weak in the knees. And that was natural, too.

He went trudging back to the wrecked gyros. His friends [Pg 73]were gone, leaving a scrawled memo for him. They had gone to pick out the machine tools for the work at hand.

He continued to check over the wreckage, thinking with a detached compassion of that poor devil Braun who was the victim of men who hated the idea of the Space Platform and what it would mean to humanity. Men of that kind thought of themselves as superior to humanity, and of human beings as creatures to be enslaved. So they arranged for planes to crash and burn and for men to be murdered, and they practiced blackmail—or rewarded those who practiced it for them. They wanted to prevent the Platform from existing because it would keep them from trying to pull the world down in ruins so they could rule over the wreckage.

Joe—who had so recently thought it likely that he would die—considered these actions with an icy dislike that was much deeper than anger. It was backed by everything he believed in, everything he had ever wanted, and everything he hoped for. And anger could cool off, but the way he felt about people who would destroy others for their own purposes could not cool off. It was part of him. He thought about it as he worked, with all the noises of the Shed singing in his ears.

A voice said: “Joe.”

He started and turned. Sally stood behind him, looking at him very gravely. She tried to smile.

“Dad told me,” she said, “about the check-up that says you’re all right. May I congratulate you on your being with us for a while?—on the cobalt’s not getting near you?—or the rest of us?”

Joe did not know exactly what to say.

“I’m going inside the Platform,” she told him. “Would you like to come along?”

He wiped his hands on a piece of waste.

“Naturally! My gang is off picking out tools. I can’t do much until they come back.”

He fell into step beside her. They walked toward the Platform. And it was still magic, no matter how often Joe looked at it. It was huge beyond belief, though it was surely [Pg 74]not heavy in proportion to its size. Its bright plating shone through the gossamer scaffolding all about it. There was always a faint bluish mist in the air, and there were the marsh-fire lights of welding torches playing here and there. The sounds of the Shed were a steady small tumult in Joe’s ears. He was getting accustomed to them, though.

“How is it you can go around so freely?” he asked abruptly. “I have to be checked and rechecked.”

“You’ll get a full clearance,” she told him. “It has to go through channels. Me—I have influence. I always come in through security, and I have the door guards trained. And I do have business in the Platform.”

He turned his head to look at her.

“Interior decoration,” she explained. “And don’t laugh! It isn’t prettifying. It’s psychology. The Platform was designed by engineers and physicists and people with slide rules. They made a beautiful environment for machinery. But there will be men living in it, and they aren’t machines.”

“I don’t see——”

“They designed the hydroponic garden,” said Sally with a certain scorn. “They calculated very neatly that eleven square feet of leaf surface of a pumpkin plant will purify all the air a resting man uses, and so much more will purify the air a man uses when he’s working hard. So they designed the gardens for the most efficient production of the greatest possible leaf surface—of pumpkin plants! They figured food would be brought up by the tender rockets! But can you imagine the men in the Platform, floating among the stars, living on dehydrated food and stuffing themselves hungrily with pumpkins because that is the only fresh food they have?”

Joe saw the irony.

“They’re thinking of mechanical efficiency,” said Sally indignantly. “I don’t know anything about machinery, but I’ve wasted an awful lot of time at school and otherwise if I don’t know something about human beings! I argued, and the garden now isn’t as mechanically efficient, but it’ll be a nice place for a man to go into. He won’t smell pumpkin [Pg 75]plants all the time, either. I’ve even gotten them to include some flowers!”

They were very near the Platform. And it was very near to completion. Joe looked at it hungrily, and he felt a great sense of urgency. He tried to strip away the scaffolding in his mind and see it floating proudly free in emptiness, with white-hot sunshine glinting from it, and only a background of unwinking stars.

Sally’s voice went on: “And I’ve really put up an argument about the living quarters. They had every interior wall painted aluminum! I argued that in space or out of it, where people have to live, it’s housekeeping. This is going to be their home. And they ought to