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Updated: June 14, 2025
I assure you that within the next hour you'll know more about Project Brainchild than I've been able to find out in two years.... Now put your face in here and keep your eyes open. When you can see the target spot, focus on it and tell me." Mike the Angel put his face in the rest for the retinal photos. The soft foam rubber adjusted around his face, and he was looking into blackness.
The bugs weren't all out of the Brainchild, by any means, and the men knew it. She had taken a devil of a strain on the take-off, and something was about due to weaken. It was the external field around the hull that had decided to goof off this time. It developed a nice, unpleasant two-cycle throb that threatened to shake the ship apart.
Sixty seconds later the Brainchild began her long, logarithmic drop toward the surface of Eisberg. Landing a ship on her jets isn't an easy job, but at least an ion rocket is built for the job. Maybe someday the Translation drive will be modified for planetary landings, but so far such a landing has been, as someone put it, "50 per cent raw energy and 50 per cent prayer."
They could drive the Brainchild no faster. They simply settled down to a steady growl and pushed the ship at a steady velocity through what the mathematicians termed "null-space." The Brainchild was on her way. "What I want to know," said Lieutenant Keku, "is, what kind of ship is this?" Mike the Angel chuckled, and Lieutenant Mellon, the Medical Officer, grinned rather shyly.
The information we have given him, plus the deductions and computations he has made from that information, is worth...." He shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows? How can a price be put on knowledge?" The William Branchell dubbed Brainchild fled Earth at ultralight velocity, while officers, crew, and technical advisers settled down to routine.
"No, sir, I don't. But whatever it is, it's dangerous as hell." The briefing for the officers and men of the William Branchell the Brainchild was held in a lecture room at the laboratories of the Computer Corporation of Earth's big Antarctic base. Captain Quill spoke first, warning everyone that the project was secret and asking them to pay the strictest attention to what Dr.
And, since there was no ozonosphere to block out the UV radiation from the primary, the thickness of the ionosphere beneath the plasmasphere was greater. Not until the Brainchild hit the bare fringes of the upper atmosphere did she act any differently than she had in space.
Mike the Angel had a job he emphatically didn't like. He was supposed to convert the power plant of the Brainchild from a spaceship driver into a stationary generator. The conversion job itself wasn't tedious; in principle, it was similar to taking the engine out of an automobile and converting it to a power plant for an electric generator.
"Just security precautions, sir," said the ensign uncomfortably. "Nobody but those connected with Project Brainchild are supposed to know about Snookums. If anyone else finds out, we're supposed to take them into protective custody." "I'll bet you're widely loved for that," said Mike. "I suppose the gadget at Miss What's-her-name's belt was an alarm to warn you of impending disaster?"
From deep within her vitals, the throb began, a strumming, thrumming sound with a somewhat higher note imposed upon it, making a sound like that of a bass viol being plucked rapidly on its lowest string. It was not the intensity of the ionosphere that cracked the drive of the Brainchild; it was the duration.
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