Space Platform, Murray Leinster [primary phonics books .TXT] 📗

convoy of trucks passed, going to the Shed.

Presently, though, lights twinkled in the night. Again the bus slowed, in column with the others. Then there were barrackslike buildings, succeeding each other, and then there was a corner and suddenly the outside was ablaze with light. The busses drew up to the curb and stopped, and everybody was immediately in a great hurry to get out, shoving unnecessarily, and Joe let himself be carried along by the crowd.

He found himself on the sidewalk with bright neon signs up and down the street. He was in the midst of the crowd which was the middle shift released. It eddied and dispersed without seeming to lessen. Most of the figures in sight were men. There were very, very few women. The neon signs proclaimed that here one could buy beer, and that this was Fred’s Place, and that was Sid’s Steak Joint. Bowling. Pool. A store—still open for this shift’s trade—sold fancy shirts and strictly practical work clothes and highly eccentric items of personal adornment. A movie house. A second. A third. Somewhere a record shop fed repetitious music to the night air. There was movement and crowding and jostling, but the middle of the street was almost empty save for the busses. There were some bicycles, but practically no other wheeled traffic. After all, Bootstrap was strictly a security town. A man could leave whenever he chose, but there were formalities, and personal cars weren’t practical.

“Chief’ll be yonder,” said Haney in Joe’s ear. “Come along.”

They shouldered their way along the sidewalk. The passers-by were of a type—construction men. Somebody here had taken part in the building of every skyscraper and bridge and dam put up in Joe’s lifetime. They could have been kept away from the Space Platform job only by a flat refusal by security to let them be hired.

Haney and Joe moved toward Sid’s Steak Joint, with Mike the midget marching truculently between them. Men nodded to them as they passed. Joe marshaled in his mind what he was going to tell the Chief. He had a trick for fixing the pilot gyros. A speck of rust would spoil them, and they had been through a plane crash and a fire and explosions, but his trick would do, in ten days or less, what the plant back home had needed four months to accomplish. The trick was something to gloat over.

Into Sid’s Steak Joint. A juke box was playing. Over in a booth, four men ate hungrily, with a slot TV machine in the wall beside them showing wrestling matches out in San Francisco. A waiter carried a huge tray from which steam and fragrant odors arose.

There was the Chief, dark and saturnine to look at, with his straight black hair gleaming in the light. He was a Mohawk, and he and his tribe had taken to steel construction work a long time back. They were good. There were not many big construction jobs on which the Chief’s tribesmen were not to be found working. Forty of them had died together in the worst construction accident in history, when a bridge on its way to completion collapsed in the making, but there were a dozen or more at work on the Space Platform now. The Chief had essayed machine-tool work at the Kenmore plant, and he’d been good. He’d pitched on the plant baseball team, and he’d sung bass in the church choir, but there had been nobody else around who talked Indian, and he’d gotten lonely. At that, though, he’d left because the Space Platform began and wild horses couldn’t have kept him away from a job like that!

He’d held a table for Haney and Mike, but his eyes widened when he saw Joe. Then he grinned and almost upset the table to stand up and greet him.

“Son-of-a-gun!” he said warmly. “What you doin’ here?”

“Right now,” said Joe. “I’m looking for you. I’ve got a job for you.”

The Chief, still grinning, shook his head.

“Not me, I’m here till the Platform’s done.”

“It’s on the job,” said Joe. “I’ve got to get a crew together to repair something I brought out here today and that got smashed in the landing.”

The four of them sat down. Mike’s chin was barely above the table top. The Chief waved to a waiter. “Steaks all around!” he bellowed. Then he bent toward Joe. “Shoot it!”

Joe told his story. Concisely. The pilot gyros, which had to be perfect, had been especially gunned at by saboteurs. An attack with possibly stolen proximity-fused rockets. The plane was booby-trapped, and somebody at an airfield had had a chance to spring the trap. So it was wreckage. Crashed and burned on landing.

The Chief growled. Haney pressed his lips together. The eyes of Mike were burning.

“Plenty of that sabotage stuff,” growled the Chief. “Hard to catch the so-and-sos. Smash the gyros and the take-off’d have to wait till new ones got made—and that’s more time for more sabotage.”

Joe said carefully: “I think it can be licked. Listen a minute, will you?”

The Chief fixed his eyes upon him.

“The gyros have to be rebalanced,” said Joe. “They have to spin on their own center of gravity. At the plant, they set them up, spun them, and found which side was heavy. They took metal off till it ran smoothly at five hundred r.p.m. Then they spun it at a thousand. It vibrated. They found imbalance that was too small to show up before. They fixed that. They speeded it up. And so on. They tried to make the center of gravity the center of the shaft by trimming off the weight that put the center of gravity somewhere else. Right?”

The Chief said irritably: “No other way to do it! No other way!”

“I saw one,” said Joe. “When they cleaned up the wreck at the airfield, they heaved up the crates with a crane. The slings were twisted. Every crate spun as it rose. But not one wobbled! They found their own centers of gravity and spun around them!”

The Chief scowled, deep in thought. Then his face went blank.

“By the holy mud turtle!” he grunted. “I get it!”

Joe said, with very great pains not to seem triumphant, “Instead of spinning the shaft and trimming the rotor, we’ll spin the rotor and trim the shaft. We’ll form the shaft around the center of gravity, instead of trying to move the center of gravity to the middle of the shaft. We’ll spin the rotors on a flexible bearing base. I think it’ll work.”

Surprisingly, it was Mike the midget who said warmly, “You got it! Yes, sir, you got it!”

The Chief took a deep breath. “Yeah! And d’you know how I know? The Plant built a high-speed centrifuge once. Remember?” He grinned with the triumph Joe concealed. “It was just a plate with a shaft in the middle. There were vanes on the plate. It fitted in a shaft hole that was much too big. They blew compressed air up the shaft hole. It floated the plate up, the air hit the vanes and spun the plate—and it ran as sweet as honey! Balanced itself and didn’t wobble a bit! We’ll do something like that! Sure!”

“Will you work on it with me?” asked Joe. “We’ll need a sort of crew—three or four altogether. Have to figure out the stuff we need. I can ask for anybody I want. I’m asking for you. You pick the others.”

The Chief grinned broadly. “Any objections, Haney? You and Mike and me and Joe here? Look!”

He pulled a pencil out of his pocket. He started to draw on the plastic table top, and then took a paper napkin instead.

“Something like this——”

The steaks came, sizzling on the platters they’d been cooked in. The outside was seared, and the inside was hot and deliciously rare. Intellectual exercises like the designing of a machine-tool operation could not compete with such aromas and sights and sounds. The four of them fell to.

But they talked as they ate. Absorbed and often with their mouths full, frequently with imperfect articulation, but with deepening satisfaction as the steaks vanished and the method they’d use took form in their minds. It wouldn’t be wholly simple, of course. When the rotors were spinning about their centers of gravity, trimming off the shaft would change the center of gravity. But the change would be infinitely less than trimming off the rotors’ rims. If they spun the rotors and used an abrasive on the high side of the shaft as it turned....

“Going to have precession!” warned Mike. “Have to have a polishing surface. Quarter turn behind the cutter. That’ll hold it.”

Joe only remembered afterward to be astonished that Mike would know gyro theory. At the moment he merely swallowed quickly to get the words out.

“Right! And if we cut too far down we can plate the bearing up to thickness and cut it down again——”

“Plate it up with iridium,” said the Chief. He waved a steak knife. “Man! This is gonna be fun! No tolerance you say, Joe?”

“No tolerance,” agreed Joe. “Accurate within the limits of measurement.”

The Chief beamed. The Platform was a challenge to all of humanity. The pilot gyro was essential to the functioning of the Platform. To provide that necessity against impossible obstacles was a challenge to the four who were undertaking it.

“Some fun!” repeated the Chief, blissfully.

They ate their steaks, talking. They consumed huge slabs of apple pie with preposterous mounds of ice cream on top, still talking urgently. They drank coffee, interrupting each other to draw diagrams. They used up all the paper napkins, and were still at it when someone came heavily toward the table. It was the stocky man who had fought with Haney on the Platform that day. Braun.

He tapped Haney on the shoulder. The four at the table looked up.

“We hadda fight today,” said Braun in a queer voice. He was oddly pale. “We didn’t finish. You wanna finish?”

Haney growled.

“That was a fool business,” he said angrily. “That ain’t any place to fight, up on the job! You know it!”

“Yeah,” said Braun in the same odd voice. “You wanna finish it now?”

Haney said formidably: “I’m not dodgin’ any fight. I didn’t dodge it then. I’m not dodgin’ it now. You picked it. It was crazy! But if you got over the craziness——”

Braun smiled a remarkably peculiar smile. “I’m still crazy. We finish, huh?”

Haney pushed back his chair and stood up grimly. “Okay, we finish it! You coulda killed me. I coulda killed you too, with that fall ready for either of us.”

“Sure! Too bad nobody got killed,” said Braun.

“You fellas wait,” said Haney angrily to Joe and the rest. “There’s a storeroom out back. Sid’ll let us use it.”

But the Chief pushed back his chair.

“Uh-uh,” he said, shaking his head. “We’re watchin’ this.”

Haney spoke with elaborate courtesy: “You mind, Braun? Want to get some friends of yours, too?”

“I got no friends,” said Braun. “Let’s go.”

The Chief went authoritatively to the owner of Sid’s Steak Joint. He paid the bill, talking. The owner of the place negligently jerked his thumb toward the rear. This was not an unparalleled request—for the use of a storeroom so that two men could batter each other undisturbed. Bootstrap was a law-abiding town, because to get fired from work on the Platform was to lose a place in the most important job in history. So it was inevitable that the settlement of quarrels in private should become commonplace.

The Chief leading, they filed through the kitchen and out of doors. The storeroom lay beyond. The Chief went in and switched on the light. He looked about and was satisfied. It was almost empty, save for stacked cartons in one corner. Braun was already taking off his coat.

“You want rounds and stuff?” demanded the Chief.

“I want fight,” said Braun thickly.

“Okay, then,” snapped the Chief. “No kickin’ or gougin’.