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Updated: June 14, 2025
"Ne' mind," said Mike. "Sit down, won't you?" "Oh, I can't, thanks. I came to get Fitz; a meeting of the Research Board has been called, and afterward we have to give a lecture or something to the officers of the Brainchild." "You mean the Branchell?" Her smile became an impish grin. "You call it what you want. To us, it's the Brainchild." Dr. Fitzhugh said: "Will you excuse us, Commander?
It was prepared to lose men, but even more prepared to save them. Mike the Angel stepped into the cargo air lock of the Brainchild, stood morosely in the center of the cubicle, and watched the outer door close. Eight other men, clad, like himself, in regulation Space Service spacesuits, also looked wearily at the closing door.
"He won't answer my questions," Fitzhugh repeated, looking earnestly at Mike. "He says God won't allow him to." Captain Sir Henry Quill opened the door of the late Lieutenant Mellon's quarters and went in, followed by Mike the Angel. The dead man's gear had to be packed away so that it could be given to his nearest of kin when the officers and crew of the Brainchild returned to Earth.
The extra help was needed to get the new base established. It was obviously impossible to try to move the Brainchild a hundred miles. With nothing to power her but the Translation drive, she was as helpless as a submarine on the Sahara. Especially now that her drive was shot. The Eisberg base had to be built around Snookums, who was, after all, the only reason for the base's existence.
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.
Well into the 19th century, artists and innovators were commissioned and salaried to produce their works of art and contrivances. The advent of the Industrial Revolution and the imagery of the romantic lone inventor toiling on his brainchild in a basement or, later, a garage gave rise to the patent.
"And yet his hatred of me was so great that he took the chances he has taken, here on the Brainchild, where it should have been obvious that he stood a much better chance of being caught than if he had waited until we were back on Earth again. "So I gave him one more chance. I handed him my life on a platter, you might say. "He grabbed the bait.
Take-off in fifteen minutes!" Keku grinned, saluted Mike the Angel, and walked out the door. Multhaus gazed after him, looking at the closed door. "A blinking prophet, Commander," he said. "A blinking prophet." The take-off of the Brainchild was not so easy as it might have appeared to anyone who watched it from the outside.
The layer of ionization was too thick; the ship couldn't make it through the layer fast enough, in spite of her high velocity. A man can hold a red-hot bit of steel in his hand for a fraction of a second without even feeling it. But if he has to hold a hot baked potato for thirty seconds, he's likely to get a bad burn. So it was with the Brainchild.
But I insist we hear from Commander Gabriel before we adjourn." "Not me," Mike said, shaking his head. "I know when I'm beaten." He'd been going to suggest that the Brainchild was a training ship, from Snookums' "learning" periods, but that seemed rather obvious and puerile now. He glanced at his watch, saw the time, and stood up. "Excuse me, gentlemen; I have things to do."
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