“All right, then, listen,” said Connel. “I’ve given the satellite a name. From now on we call it Junior. And this will be known as Junior’s Pitch! I’ve explained how Junior is a captive satellite revolving around Tara, the same way our Moon revolves around Earth. We have two problems. One is to blast it out of Tara’s grip. And the other is to take advantage of Tara’s orbital speed around its sun Alpha Centauri, and Junior’s orbital speed around Tara. We’ve got to combine the velocities of the orbits, so that when we do spring Junior loose, he’ll gain in speed!”
“But how do we get the orbital speeds to help us, Major?” asked Alfie. His glasses had slipped to the very end of his nose.
“If you’d give the major a chance, he’d tell you, Big Brain,” drawled Roger. Alfie gave Roger a withering look and turned back to the major.
“Do you remember when you were kids and tied a rock on the end of a rope and then swung it around your head?” asked Connel.
“Sure, sorta like a slingshot,” said Astro.
“That’s right, Astro,” said Connel, “and if you released the rope, the rock would fly in the direction it was headed, when you let go!”
“I get it,” cried Tom excitedly. “The gravity of Tara is the rope holding Junior—ah”—he fumbled—“making it swing around!”
“And the reactant power of the Space Devil placed in the right spot would be the trigger to make it let go!” commented Roger.
“It’s as simple as that, boys!” said Connel with a smile.
“But how in the blazing beams of the sun are you going to stop that blasted thing when you get it rolling?” asked Shinny.
“The chances of Junior hitting anything on the way home are so small it doesn’t present a problem. So we just aim Junior for our solar system! Later on, arrangements can be made to steer it into an orbit around our sun.”
“You know,” wheezed Shinny, his merry eyes twinkling, “that sounds pretty neat!”
“It is,” replied Connel. He leaned against the control-board desk top and folded his arms across his massive chest. He looked at each of the cadets and Shinny a long time before speaking. Finally he stepped forward and stood among them, turning now and then to speak directly to each of them.
“We have only four days, five hours, and some few minutes to pull Junior out of Tara’s grip, and later, the grip of Alpha Centauri. You boys will have to work as you’ve never worked before. You’ll do things you never dreamed you could do. You’ll work until your brains ache and your bodies scream. But when you’re finished, you will have accomplished one of man’s greatest challenges. You’re going to do all this because I know you can—and I’m going to see that you do! Is that clear?”
There was a barely audible “Yes, sir” from the cadets.
“The six of us, working together, are going to send a hunk of copper fifteen miles in diameter hurtling through twenty-three million million miles of space, so let’s get that ball rolling. Right now!”
With Major Connel roaring, pleading, and blasting, four young cadets and a derelict spaceman began the monumental task of assembling the mass of information necessary for the satellite’s big push through space. During the three days that their project had been under way, Tom, Roger, Astro, Alfie, and Mr. Shinny worked, as Major Connel promised, as they had never worked before.
Late in the afternoon of the third day Connel stepped through the hatch of the control deck where Tom was busy over a table of ratios for balancing the amount of thrust from each of the reactant-power units. The power units were to give Junior its initial thrust out of the gravity of Tara.
“Well, Corbett,” asked Connel, “how’re you making out with the ratios?”
“I’ve finished them, sir,” replied Tom, looking up at the major. His face was drawn, his eyes red from lack of sleep. “But I just can’t seem to get a time for escaping the orbit on a true tangent.”
“Have you tried making an adjustment for the overall pull of both components?” asked Connel. “That of Tara and of Alpha Centauri on Junior?” He picked up the paper Tom had been working on and glanced over the figures.
“Yes, sir,” replied Tom, “but I still can’t seem to make it come out right!”
“You’ll get it, Tom,” said Connel. “Go over it again. But remember. Time’s running out. Just one day and about twenty hours left.” Connel’s voice was friendly—more friendly than at any time Tom could remember. He smiled, and taking a fresh sheet of paper, he began the complicated calculations of escape time all over again.
Connel slipped out of the control room and went below to the power deck, where Astro and Mr. Shinny had been working without sleep for over fifty hours. When Connel slipped into the room he found the two men puzzling over a drawing board.
“What seems to be the trouble, Astro?” asked Connel.
Astro turned, startled. “We’ve tried building that lead baffle for the reactant units five times now, sir,” said Astro. “We’re having a hard time getting the correct amount of reactant power we need in a unit this small.”
“Maybe you’re trying to make it too small, Astro,” commented Connel, looking over the drawing. “Remember, this unit has but one job. To start the reaction. When the reaction fuel gets hot enough, it’ll start a reaction of the copper on Junior and sustain itself. Try a smaller amount of the reactant. But whatever you do, keep working. Only a day and a few hours left.”
Connel looked at Shinny. “Keep him working, Mr. Shinny,” he ordered. “I know he can do it. Just keep him going.”
Shinny grinned and nodded.
“I’ll try, sir,” said Astro, shaking his head, “but I won’t guarantee it—”
Connel cut him off with a roar. “Cadet Astro, I don’t want your guarantee! I want that unit. Now build it!”
Hour after hour the cadets racked their brains for what seemed like impossible answers to an impossible task. Working until their eyes closed fast shut, they would lie down right where they were—power deck, control deck, or radar bridge—and sleep. They would awake, still groggy, drink hot tea, eat cold sandwiches, and continue their struggle with time and astrophysics.
One by one, the problems were solved and set aside for newer ones that arose on the way. Each cadet worked in his particular field, and all of their information was assembled and co-ordinated by Major Connel. More than once, Connel had found the clever minds of his cadets reaching for answers to questions he knew would have troubled the professors back at Space Academy. Connel, his eye on the clock, his sharp tongue lashing out when he thought he detected unclear thinking, raced from one department to another while the incessant work continued. On the morning of the fourth day he walked into the radar bridge where Roger and Alfie had been working steadily for seventy-two hours on an electronic fuse to trigger the reactant units.
“There you are, skipper,” said Roger. “The fuse is all yours. Delivered twelve hours ahead of time!”
“Good work, Roger. You too, Alfie. Excellent!” said Connel, his eyes appraising the fuse.
“Ah, that’s nothing, skipper,” said Roger with a smile. “Anyone could have done it with Alfie here to help. He’s got a brain like a calculator!”
“Now, I want to see how smart you two really are!” said Connel.
“Huh?” asked Roger stupidly. Alfie had slumped to the deck, holding his head in his hands.
“I want a communications unit,” said Connel, “that can send out a constant beam, a signal Space Academy can pick up to follow Junior in transit back to Earth.”
“In twelve