Chapter IV

The ferry was a sausage-shaped structure of thin metal and plastic with an airlock at the front and a small reaction motor at the rear. It had been modified to hold either solid or liquid cargo and to operate off the monopropellant fuel instead of the lox and kerosene used when the station was built. There was even a plastic pipe between the cargo tank and its fuel tank to save separate filling, and no further modification was needed.

Blane took it out after checking the stowage of the mercury cans. He was slightly rusty, but he steadied down as he jockeyed into position beside one of the three lunar ships. He'd picked a balloon on the sunward side, and the warm fuel was soon flowing into his tank, forced through a long tube by a tiny, built-in pump. When he took off again, the ferry was overloaded and sluggish, but it showed no evidence of weakness. Of course, if they ran into a meteoroid of any size, they'd be ruined--but the chances of that were very slight.

Peal was already outside the hub, dressed in space suit and clinging to a convenient handhold. He came through the lock, carrying his computations, a small telescope, and an extra spacesuit for Blane. "May need this," he suggested. "Our front end probably won't fit the seal on their hub."

Blane nodded. He should have thought of it. But his chief interest was in the orbit. It had been figured so that they would accelerate away from the station and up from Earth at low thrust, well within the limits of his power. There was a table of times and star angles to locate his correct course. Peal had done an excellent job, far better than Blane had expected.

"I spent two years on the Island," the scientist explained. "I learned a little about astrogation, though I'm no navigator. But this is a simple problem."

Essentially, it was; to make it simpler, it was always possible to make minor corrections, since they had more than enough fuel.

"If the stations were run properly, there'd be a regular service between them," Peal suggested when they were coasting along in their orbit. "It would be cheaper to exchange supplies than to rush up a sudden emergency shipment from Earth. In fact, if a private company had built the first one, there would probably be a dozen stations by now, all connected. And we'd take over the television relay business, too."

At times, Peal sounded like the editorials from a business magazine, but Blane could find no fault with his logic. The fact was that the stations _were_ basically service companies, delivering useful services for which they could collect enormous fees without complaints. But they were forced to render most of their service to a military struggle no one wanted and for which no one wanted to be forced to pay.

* * * * *

Peal went on, warming to his theme. "History proves my point, Jerry. The stations have to be too complicated in function and too flexible in purpose to be run properly by men who have to think in terms of Earth politics. Every nation that ever tried controlling a major industrial set-up has found it won't work. They tried socializing railroads, airlines and factories--not to mention farming--and the experiment failed. Every Russian industry today is run independently by its own board who share in the profits, no matter how much theoretical ownership rests with the government. And China is now nothing but a system of state capitalism, whatever they call it there."

"Fine," Blane admitted. "Why didn't private industry build the stations, then?"

Peal grimaced, then grinned. "That's the weak point, of course. You can't sell shares to fund a venture until the public sees the need--and they couldn't see the need of space until military pressure put the stations up and proved they had other values. But now the stations have proved themselves. The government should turn them back to private hands under long-term loans, the same as they turned back factories after the war."

"They won't, though. And it's not just that no power is ever voluntarily given up," Blane pointed out. "They won't sell the stations because they're up here where no government on Earth could tax them. They might eventually, otherwise, but no government is going to lose its profit without getting taxes in return."

For a second, Peal started to argue. Then an expression of surprise crept onto his face. He sat silently through most of the trip. Like most scientists, he'd probably considered himself a fair amateur economist, but he'd overlooked one of the most basic aspects of economy--the fact that governments also had to operate on enough of a profit to pay their executives and bond-holders.

At the end of the wide-looping three hour orbit, Blane was surprised and pleased to see that he could locate the Russian station through the telescope. They had made corrections according to Peal's figures, and the scientist had proved to be a better astrogator than could have been expected. Only a tiny corrective blast was needed to bring them into line with the _Sulky_.

* * * * *

As they drew near, Blane stared in amazement. He'd seen pictures, but they had never conveyed the true feeling of the station. Russia had a tradition of building massively for space. Her early ships had been heavy and unsophisticated, relying on strength, size and power. The station was the same. It resembled the _Goddard_ superficially, but it was three times as large, and must contain more than twenty times the total volume. It had a solid, substantial look that was indefinable.

The ferry contained a tiny radio, but Blane had not expected it to be useful, since it was adjusted for the frequencies that had been used by the work forces who built the _Goddard_. He reached out and turned it on, expecting nothing. Yet there was a voice coming from it, speaking excellent English. It was a female voice, and a pleasant one.

"Ahoy, space taxi! _Tsiolkovsky_ calling taxi. Oh, for Pete's sake, don't you Americans have two-way radio? Wiggle your tail or something so I'll know you're receiving, and I'll give you landing instructions!"

Peal grinned and picked up the microphone. "Ahoy, _Sulky_."

"Ah. So you can answer. Then if you can match our orbit, come beneath the hub. The smallest landing net will fit the nose of your taxi, if our records are correct. You did bring the mercury, didn't you?"

"We brought it," Peal assured her.

"Then in the name of science and humanity, I thank you. And--and I'm so glad to see you, I'll be there to kiss you welcome!"

"There are two of us," Peal started to answer, but she had clicked off. He watched as Blane began jockeying into position, cranking furiously at the little weighted wheel that controlled the angle of the ferry. "Pretty sure we'd come wasn't she?"

"Edwards had a beam antenna on his ship. He could have tipped the _Sulky_ off on his way down," Blane said. The little ship was finally lined up and he blasted forward gently against the small landing net. The nose settled firmly into a silicone doughnut that formed a perfect airtight seal. They wouldn't even need to wear spacesuits.

* * * * *

There were three girls and four men waiting for them inside the enormous hub. Six moved forward promptly to begin transferring the cans of mercury, but one girl, shorter, darker and prettier than the others, stepped forward. She kissed both of them--solemnly on both cheeks after the Russian formal fashion. Then she held out her hand.

"I'm Dr. Sonya Vartanian."

Peal introduced Blane and himself. After the handshaking, Blane gestured toward the main station, eager to see it and looking for an excuse. "I'm delighted to know you. But I think I'd better see your commanding officer."

"I'm in command." She said it quite simply. Then at their surprise she chuckled. "We don't have the male chauvinism of America. Besides, all the military officers were below when--when everything was destroyed. But perhaps you'd like to see our station?"

* * * * *

There was a great deal that was crude, and some that seemed to be handmade where American products were smoothly machine made. But generally, it was something to arouse envy in Blane. Obviously, there had been no effort made to save on costs here, and the great Russian boosters had lifted fantastic weights where American engineers had been limited to what ships of lesser thrust would carry. With no restrictions on cost or size, the Russian engineers had simply designed for what they felt desirable, rather than what was possible. The command suite was even equipped with a bar that contained a private refrigerator, though that was now off, due to the need to save power.

The quarters of the staff were spacious, and many showed signs of never having been occupied. The laboratories were beautifully equipped, and again less than a third had ever been used.

"We had great plans--but now we are limited. The threat of war makes even our leaders hesitate to begin so many long-range plans," she explained.

Peal nodded. "You see, Jerry? It's the same here. Waste and inefficiency. This place could make ten times the profit of any other comparable investment, but it's wasted under government control."

Sonya darted him a sudden piercing gaze and stopped in her tracks. Then she laughed uncertainly. "You'll forgive me, Dr. Peal. But those words--they were just what I was going to say."

"You?" Blane stared at her doubtfully. "Isn't capitalistic talk deviationist, at least?"

"Not to an American, and sometimes now not at all." She laughed, as if relaxing from some strain. "We study American economics in our schools, just as we learn your language. Sometimes capitalism seems romantic to us--selling stocks, floating loans, such things. But sometimes I think about what could be done if this were all to be a separate nation, free for all time."

They crossed a great empty section of the station, and Blane recognized that they had already been through there twice before. He saw that Sonya was staring at him intently again as he glanced about more carefully. He moved closer to her, his eyes moving from her face to scratches on the floor and back. She shook her head faintly, and he let the question die unasked.

They ended the grand tour in her office. The power was already on, and the refrigerator was humming. There was no ice, but there was cold water for the drinks she offered them. "You might stay for dinner," she suggested.

Peal seemed embarrassed. "You'll need your supplies ..." he began.

"Supplies?" She laughed at that. "Dr. Peal, here we have supplies to last twice our number for a year, even without a ship. You will stay?"

Blane shook his head. They'd spent too much time already. She accepted the refusal and accompanied them to the waiting taxi, holding out her hand in farewell.

"Sometime, when you need help, remember we are here," she told them. "If there should be any danger or trouble, we are anxious to offer you what we can give."

It was delivered in an almost formal tone, as if now she were rephrasing from her own language.

* * * * *

The trip back was simpler than the first trip, since the ferry now carried no cargo and only half as much fuel. It responded more readily. Peal was silent until they were well away from the _Sulky_. Then he shook his head as if coming out of a brown study.

"Jerry, where do they keep their bombs? We covered every single inch of that station--we went into every room and cranny. I watched to make sure she wasn't just doubling back. She did, sometimes, but she showed us the whole thing, all the same. And there were no bombs or missiles big enough to dump warheads on Earth. There was one place where they should have been, with what could have been outside release chutes. But it was empty, though there were scratches on the floor where missiles might have stood."

Blane nodded, remembering the place they'd been led across three times. "I know, I saw it. They don't have bombs. They had them, but they're gone. And Sonya Vartanian meant us to see it, too. She didn't quit leading us across the place until she knew I'd guessed."

* * * * *

"Why let us know? So we could report that they've been pulling a colossal bluff at those disarmament meetings? That doesn't make sense."

"No." Blane had been doing his own thinking. "Nobody would believe us--it's incredible, and they'd be sure we'd been duped neatly. They wouldn't dare believe us. And it isn't because Russia is too civilized to use bombs, either; that station was better designed for war than ours, and policies don't change that fast. My guess is that they've been gone from the station two years now."

Peal considered it. "That would be when we spotted the first mass of all their ships together--probably carrying the missiles back to Earth in emergency action. Then that flight that blew up must have been set to carry new missiles up, right?"

Blane nodded. It wasn't a happy idea. It would have taken some very good reason for Russia to remove her missiles during a period of rising tension and hold off for two years before further pressures forced her to resume the idea of stockpiling weapons in space.

* * * * *

He studied the distant _Goddard_ through his telescope as they began to draw near. "Maybe I'm wrong, Austin. But they first put warheads out in space a couple of years before we could. And maybe those warheads began to go through a rapid increase in radioactivity a couple of years before Manners noticed that ours were doing the same. If so, it must have been a pretty serious warning to make the officials disarm the station secretly."

"The girl wanted us to see that the bombs were gone, and she couldn't talk about it. Then she put too much emphasis on that business of offering help if we were in danger." Peal grimaced. "It all adds up."

"How much longer will we have?" Blane asked.

The scientist shook his head. "I don't know, Jerry, and I'm not good enough a physicist to find out."