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"Just a minute, sir," came the answer, and seconds that seemed like eternities passed before the doctor's calm voice answered, "Dr. Koblensky speaking." "Did you know that seven men were going out to Hot Rod?" "Of course not. They mustn't...." The captain switched off and changed to the intercom for the machine shop. "Dr. Ishie. Mr. Blackhawk. To the bridge on the double. Fast," he said.
Not satisfied with simply tying the man up, Ishie had bound him with wire to somewhat the resemblance of an Egyptian mummy, and then for added good measure, given him two sleepy shots with his own needle gun; put electrician tape across his mouth; and taken from him everything he could possibly use either as a method of communication or as a weapon.
The drawings looked extremely impressive. As the second set of drawings neared completion, Ishie glanced at the clock, then turned to the Cow's vocoder. "How soon will Space Lab One reach the northernmost point of her present orbit and begin a swing to the south?" he asked. Mike looked puzzled, but the Cow answered, "In ten minutes, thirty-seven seconds. At precisely 05:27:53 ship time."
Just tell me what you did!" Carefully now, Mike began outlining in detail his inspection of the device and each step he had taken as he added to its complexities. When he had finished, the two sat back on their heels thinking. Finally, Mike spoke. "Ishie, will you please tell me just how does this thing ... this Confusor ... get that thrust? Just exactly what is involved here?"
You don't have to tell me. I'll just keep on being puzzled quietly and without indicating the slightest magneto-ionic dubiousness, if you'd rather. But I might be helpful; and I would like to know." "Confusion say," Ishie declared through the side of his mouth, "that he who inadvertently puts big foot in mouth is apt to get teeth kicked loose.
Mike do you know what this means?" His eyes were alight. His voice was reverent. He sprang from the bunk and knelt before the rack that held the churkling Confusor. "My pretty," he said. "My delicate pretty. What you have done! Mike, we've got a space drive!" "Ishie. Don't you realize? We wiped out Thule!" "Thule, schmule Mike, we've got a space drive!" Mike grinned to himself.
If these prove out, you may have saved the satellite by the rapidity of your work. Dr. Kimball calculated that our present acceleration will take us dangerously close to the Van Allen belt in about three orbits, and I need not tell you what that would mean." Ishie spoke up immediately. "In that case, captain, perhaps Mr.
He needn't have worried. Not about Ishie, any how. But now Ishie was gesturing him over. "Mike," he said, "you must show me in detail. In exact detail. What did you do? What was your procedure?" Mike came over and casually reached towards the churkling device, saying "Why, I " but Ishie reacted with catlike swiftness, blocking the man before he could even touch the rack. "No, don't touch it!
But if we can figure out how to communicate an idea to a computer, we're real geniuses." Ishie turned on the vocoder. "Please supply us," he told the Cow, "with a complete recording of your latest conversation with Mike." And as the computer started back over the dialogue that has just occurred between herself and Mike, Ishie interrupted.
And what handle did we get hold of to convert that influence of self to our own advantage in moving this ship?" Mike stared at Ishie with vast respect. "I thought you physics boys did it all with math," he said softly, "and here you've outlined the facts of space that an Indian can feel in his bones and you've done it in good, solid English that makes some sense.
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