"Murray Leinster - Space Tug" - читать интересную книгу автора (Leinster Murray)

held.
He went downstairs. Major Holt was pacing up and down the living room of his quarters. Electric lights
burned, but already the windows were brightening. Joe straightened up and tried to look casual. Strictly
speaking, Major Holt was a friend of his family who also happened to be security officer here, in charge of
what went on in the great construction shed. He'd had a bad enough time before today, and his troubles
might keep on into the future. He was also the ranking officer here and consequently the boss of Joe's
enterprise. Today's program was still very doubtful. The whole thing was controversial and uncertain and
might spoil the careers of everybody connected with it if it should happen to fail. Nobody with eagles or
stars on their shoulders wanted the responsibility. So Major Holt was in charge. If everything went well,
somebody outranking him would step forward for the credit. MeanwhileтАФ
He looked sharply at Joe.
"Morning."
"Good morning, sir," said Joe. Major Holt's daughter Sally had a sort of understanding with Joe, but the
major hadn't the knack of cordiality. Nobody ever felt too.much at ease with him. Besides, Joe was
wearing a uniform this morning. It was the first time, and there were only eight such uniforms in the
world, so far. Joe's was black whipcord, with an Eisenhower jacket, narrow silver braid on the collar and
cuffs, and a silver rocket on the spot where a plane pilot wears wings. It was strictly practical. Against
accidental catchings in machinery the trouser legs were narrow and tucked into ten-inch soft-leather boots,
and the wide leather belt had flat loops for the attachment of special equipment. Its width was a brace
against violent acceleration. Sally'd had something to do with its design.
But it still hadn't been decided by the Pentagon whether the Space Exploration Project would be taken
over by the Army or Navy or Air Force sections of the now-combined armed forces, so Joe wore no
insignia of rank. Technically he was still a civilian.
The deep-toned noise to the south became a howling uproar, sweeping closer and trailed by other
howlings. The major said, "The pushpots are on the way over, as you can hear. You're feeling all right?"
"If you want the truth, sir," Joe admitted, "I'd feel better if I'd had a few years of experience. But we've
had all the experience to be had aground. I think we'll manage."
"You're saying you'll do your best," said the major curtly.
"We may have to do better than that," Joe answered. "We'll try."
"Hmmmmm," said the major. He said somehow formidably, "You're well enough aware that there areтАФ
ahтАФ people who don't like the idea of the United States having a manned artificial satellite aloft."
"I should know it," agreed Joe.
The Earth's second inhabitable moon had been out in space just six weeks, today. It no longer seemed a
bitterly contested achievement. One tended to take it for granted. From Earth it was only a tiny speck of
light in the sky, identifiable only because it moved swiftly and serenely from the sunset toward the east, or
from night's darkness into the dawnlight. But it had been fought savagely before it was launched. It was
first proposed to the United Nations, but was vetoed before it reached the Council. So the United States
had built it alone. Yet the nations who'd opposed it as an international project liked it even less as a
national one, and they'd done what they could to wreck it.
The building of the great globe out in emptiness had been fought more bitterly, by more ruthless and
highly trained saboteurs, than any other enterprise in history. There'd been two attempts to blast it with
atomic bombs. But now it was high aloft, rolling grandly around the Earth. And today Joe would try to get
a supply ship up to it. The crew of the Space Platform needed food and air and water, and especially
means of self-defense. Today's takeoff would be the first attempt at the carrying of a cargo out to space.
"TheтАФahтАФopponents of the Platform haven't given up," said the major. "They used spectroscopes on the
Platform's rocket fumes when it went up. It seems likely they've duplicated the fuel."
Joe nodded. The major continued restlessly: "For more than a month Military Intelligence has been aware
that very special rockets were being rushed into production abroad. Behind the Iron Curtain, that is. There
are plenty of satellites in orbit, and the trick of getting them there is no secret. It shouldn't be too difficult
to get one into collision orbit with the Platform. With an atomic missile headтАФit's unpleasant. So you'll