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Like the gasoline-air engines of a century before, they were spark-started reciprocating engines, except for the turbine-powered aircraft. The only trouble with the whole project was that the materials had to be toted across a hundred miles of exceedingly hostile territory. Treadmore, looking like a tortured bloodhound, said: "But we'll make it, won't we?" Everyone nodded dismally.
Mike the Angel poured two healthy slugs of Pete Jeffers' brandy into a pair of glasses, added ice and water, and handed one to Leda Crannon with a flourish. And all the time, he kept up a steady line of gentle patter. "It may interest you to know," he said chattily, "that the learned Mister Treadmore has been furnishing me with the most fascinating information."
"Indeed," he rambled on, "Treadmore babbled for Heaven knows how long on the relative occurrence of parahydrogen and orthohydrogen on Eisberg." He took his eyes from the glass and looked down at the girl who was seated demurely on the edge of his bunk. Her smile was encouraging.
And, too, the power plant of the Brainchild had been destined to be the source of power for the permanent base. It wasn't too bad, really. A little extra time, but not much. The advance base, commanded by Treadmore, was fairly well equipped.
Then she kissed him on his seamed cheek. "I beg your pardon," said a sad and solemn voice from the door. "Am I interrupting something?" It was Treadmore. "You are," said Fitzhugh with a grin, "but we will let it pass." "What has happened to Snookums?" Treadmore asked. "Acute introspection," Fitzhugh said, losing his smile. "He began to try to compute the workings of his own brain.
Mike, who had, perforce, been called in to take part in the conference, listened in silence while the engineer talked. The officers' wardroom, of which Mike the Angel was becoming heartily sick, seemed like a tomb which echoed and re-echoed the lugubrious voice of Engineer Treadmore.
That meant that he had to use his non-random circuits to analyze the workings of his random circuits. He exceeded optimum; the entire brain is now entirely randomized." "Dear me," said Treadmore. "Do you suppose we can " Black Bart Quill tapped Mike the Angel on the shoulder. "Let's go," he said quietly. "We don't want to stand around listening to this when we have a ship to catch."
Three days after the Brainchild landed, the scout group arrived from the base that had been built on Eisberg to take care of Snookums. The leader, a heavy-set engineer named Treadmore, who had unkempt brownish hair and a sad look in his eyes, informed Captain Quill that there was a great deal of work to be done. And his countenance became even sadder.
Treadmore, like the others who had landed first on Eisberg, was quartered in the prefab buildings that were to form the nucleus of the new base. To get to the ship, he'd have to walk across two hundred yards of ammonia snow in a heavy spacesuit. "Well, what happens to this base now, Doctor?" asked Captain Quill. "I sincerely hope that this will not render the entire voyage useless."
"I've checked out the major circuits, and they're in good physical condition. But Miss Crannon gave him a rather exhaustive test just before the end, and it shows definite incipient aberration." He wagged his head slowly back and forth. "Eight years of work." "Have you notified Treadmore yet?" asked Quill. Fitzhugh nodded. "He said he'd be here as soon as possible."
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