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The escape time, combining orbital speeds of Tara and Junior, are completed, and we have six hours and fifty-five minutes before blast-off!" He turned and rumpled Alfie's hair. "Alfie and I have completed the communications unit and have tested it. Junior is ready to get his big kick in the pants!" Connel stood up. He was speechless. It was almost too much to believe.
He saw them blasting off in their jet boats for the second spot. He adjusted the teleceiver and tried to follow them, but they disappeared. He glanced at the clock. "Attention! Attention! Corbett to Connel. One hour and forty-seven minutes to blast-off one hour and forty-seven minutes to blast-off."
Finally he looked over at Kit Barnard's red-painted Good Company. He knew Astro would be on the power deck, preferring to nurse the reactor than watch the blast-off. And then Strong was conscious of the tower operator counting off the seconds. He would pick it up at ten minus. He gripped the intercom mike as Mike's voice droned in his ears.
Five minutes until blast-off ... four minutes ... three ... two ... one ... thirty seconds ... fifteen ... ten ... five, four, three, two, one, BLAST!" Dimly heard through the insulated hull was what Hanlon knew to be a tremendous crescendo roar of sound, and he was pushed deep into the resilient spring-cushions of his chair.
"Spaceport traffic control to Connel," came a voice in reply over the audioceiver. "You are cleared. Your time is two minutes to zero!" Connel began snapping the many levers and switches on the control panel in proper sequence, keeping a wary eye on the astral chronometer over his head as one of its red hands ticked off the seconds to blast-off.
"All right by me, Tom," Astro said, nodding his head. "You're having space dreams, Corbett!" drawled Roger. "No matter what we do for old 'Blast-off' we'll wind up behind the eight ball." "But if we really try," urged Tom, "if we all do our jobs, there can't be anything for him to fuss about." "We'll make it tough for him to give us any demerits," Astro chimed in. "Right," said Tom.
Aboard the sleek craft, Tom Corbett relaxed after the tremendous blast-off acceleration and turned to look at the tense face of Kit Barnard who was seated in the pilot's chair. "Why don't you get some sleep, Kit?" said Tom. "I can take this baby over. It's the least I can do for all you've done for me." "Thanks, Tom, but I'll stay with it awhile longer," replied the veteran spaceman.
"He and Charley Brett are certainly working hard to get this contract." "There's a lot of money involved, sir," said Strong. "But in any case we're bound to get a good schedule with the speeds established so far." "Well, advise the cadets to stand by for blast-off with the finalists tomorrow." "Any particular ship you want them each assigned to, sir?" asked Strong.
Philander had merely stuck the mail in his pocket when it was given him, and evidently started reading it on his way back to the mine. That explained his running back, waving a letter and trying to attract attention just at blast-off. That small part of his mind that was paying attention to the men in the room heard His Highness say "take Abrams away. He ... uh ... is of no further use to us.
"This is Corbett on the Space Lance. Go ahead." Strong took the microphone. "This is Captain Strong," he called. "How was your blast-off, Tom?" "Smooth as silk, sir," replied the young cadet. "Wild Bill sends his greetings and says he'll take a three-inch steak instead of flowers when he wins." "Tell him it's a deal." Strong laughed. "End transmission." "See you on Titan, sir," said Tom.
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