"tell 'em to look sharp, bert. this pickup's got to be good." kevin morrow gulped the last of his coffee and felt its bitter acid gurgle around his stomach. he stared moodily through the plastic port where the spangled skirt of stars glittered against the black satin of endless night and a familiar curve of the space station swung ponderously around its hub.
four space-suited tugmen floated languidly outside the rim. beyond them the gleaming black and white moonship tugged gently at her mooring lines, as though anxious to be off.
bert alexander radioed quiet instructions to the tugmen.
"why the hell couldn't he stay down there and mind his own business?" kevin growled. "mckelvie's been after our hide ever since we got the appropriation, and now this." he slapped the flimsy radio-gram.
he looked up as the control room hatch opened. jones came in from the astronomy section.
"morning, commander," he said. "you guys had breakfast yet? mess closes in 30 minutes." kevin shook his head.
"we're not hungry," bert filled in.
"you think you've got nerves?" jones chuckled. "i just looked in on mark. he's sleeping like a baby. you wouldn't think the biggest day of his life is three hours away."
"mckelvie's coming up to kibitz," morrow said.
"mckelvie!"
"the one and only," bert said. "here, read all about it."
he handed over the morning facsimile torn off the machine when the station hurtled over new england at 18,000 miles an hour. the upper half of the sheet bore a picture of the white-maned senator. clearly etched on his face were the lines of too many half-rigged elections, too many compromises.
beneath the picture were quotes from his speech the night before.
"as chairman of your congressional watchdog committee," the senator had said, "i'll see that there's no more waste and corruption on this space project. for three years they've been building a rocket—the moon rocket, they call it—out there at the space station.
"i haven't seen that rocket," the senator had continued. "all i've seen is five billion of your tax dollars flying into the vacuum of space. they tell me a man named mark kramer is going to fly out in that rocket and circle the moon.
"but he will fail," mckelvie had promised. "if god had intended man to fly to the moon, he would have given us wings to do it. tomorrow i shall fly out to this space station, even at the risk of my life. i'll report the waste and corruption out there, and i'll report the failure of the moon rocket."
jones crumpled the paper and aimed at the waste basket.
"pardon me while i vomit," he said.
"we've been there," kevin sighed deeply. "i suppose max gordon will be happy."
"he'll wear a hole in his tongue on mckelvie's boots," bert said bitterly.
"is it that bad?"
"how else would he get a first class spaceman's badge?" morrow said. "he can't add two and two. but if stool pigeons had wings, he'd fly like a jet. we can't move up here without mckelvie knowing and howling about it.
"don't worry," jones said, "if the moon rocket makes it, public opinion will take care of the senator."
"if he doesn't take care of us first," kevin said darkly. "he'll be aboard in 15 minutes."
