Robert Heinlein - The Rolling Stones

No, they would not arrange a circuit to her bed. No, he could not talk to Captain Vandenbergh; the Captain was still too ill.

"I'm coming over!" Roger Stone shouted.

Turner hesitated. "That's up to you, Captain. But if you do, we'll have to quarantine you here. Dr. Stone's written orders."

Roger Stone switched off. He knew that that settled it; in matters medical Edith was a Roman judge - and he could not abandon his own ship, his family, to get to Mars by them­selves. One frail old woman, two cocksure half-trained student pilots - no, he had to take his ship in.

They sweated it out The cooking got worse, when anyone bothered to cook. It was seven endless, Earth-standard days later when the daily call was answered by, "Roger - hello, darling!"

"Edith! Are you all right?"

"Getting that way."

"What's your temperature?"

"Now, darling, I won't have you quack-doctoring me. My temperature is satisfactory, as is the rest of my physical being. I've lost a little weight, but I could stand to - don't you think?"

"No, I don't. Listen - you come home! You hear me?"

"Roger dearest! I can't and that's settled. This entire ship is under quarantine. But how is the rest of my family?"

"Oh, shucks, fine, fine! We're all in the pink."

"Stay that way. I'll call you tomorrow. Bye, dear."

Dinner that night was a celebration. Hazel cut her thumb again, but not even she cared.

The daily calls, no longer a naging worry but a pleasure, continued. It was a week later that Dr. Stone concluded by saying 'Hold on, dear. A friend of yours wants to speak with you."

"Okay, darling: Love and stuff - good-by."

"Roger Dodger?" came a bass voice.

"Van! You squareheaded bay window! I knew you were too mean to die."

"Alive and kicking, thanks to your wonderful wife. But no longer with a bay window; I haven't had time to regrow it yet"

"You will."

"No doubt. But I was asking the good doctor about something and she couldn't give me much data. Your department Rog, how did this speed run leave you for single-H? Could you use some g-juice?"

Captain Stone considered it. "Have you any surplus, Captain?"

"A little. Not much for this wagon, but it might be quite a lot for a kiddie cart like yours."

"We had to jettison, did you know?"

"I know - and I'm sorry. I'll see that a claim is pushed through promptly. I'd advance it myself, Captain, if alimony on three planets left me anything to advance."

"Maybe it won't be necessary." He explained about the radar reflector. "If we could nudge back into the old groove we just might get together with our belongings."

Vandenbergh chuckled. "I want to meet those kids of yours again; they appear to have grown up a bit in the last seven years."

"Don't. They'll stea! your bridgework. Now about this single-H: how much can you spare?"

"Enough, enough, I'm sure. This caper is worth trying, just for the sport. I'm sure it has never been done before. Never."

The two ships, perfectly matched to eye and almost so by instrument, nevertheless had drifted a couple. of miles apart while the epidemic in the liner raged and died out. The undetectable gravitational attraction between them gave them mutual escape velocity much less than their tiny residual relative motion. Up to now nothing had been done about it since they were still in the easiest of phone range. But now it was necessary to pump reactive mass from one to the other.

Roger Stone threw a weight fastened to a light messenger line as straight and as far as he could heave. By the time it was slowed to a crawl by the drag of the line a crewman from the War God came out after it on his suit jet, In due course the messenger line brought over a heavier line which was fastened to the smaller ship. Hand power alone took a strain on the line. While the mass of Rolling Stone was enormous by human muscle standards, the vector involved was too small to handle by jet and friction was nil. In warping in a space ship the lack of brakes is a consideration more important than numerous dents to ships and space stations testify.

As a result of that gentle tug, two and a half days later the ships were close enough to permit a fuel hose to be connected between them. Roger and Hazel touched the hose only with wrench and space-suit gauntlet, not enough contact to affect the quarantine even by Dr. Stone's standards. Twenty minutes later even that connection was broken and the Stone had a fresh supply of jet juice.

And not too soon. Mars was a ruddy gibbous moon, bulging ever bigger in the sky; it was time to prepare to maneuver.

"There it is!" Pollux was standing watch on the radar screen; his yelp brought his grandmother floating over.

"More likely a flock of geese," she commented, "Where?"

"Right there. Can't you see it?"

Hazel grudgingly conceded that the blip might be real. The next several hours were spent in measuring distance, bearing, and relative motion by radar and doppler and in calculating the cheapest maneuver to let them match with the errant bicycles, baggage, and books. Roger Stone took it as easily as he could, being hurried somewhat by the growing nearness of Mars. He finally settled them almost dead in space relative to the floating junk pile, with a slight drift which would bring them within three hundred yards of the mass - so he calcu­lated - at closest approach a few hours hence.

They spent the waiting time figuring the maneuvers to rendezvous with Mars. The Rolling Stone would not, of course, land on Mars but at the port on Phobos. First they must assume an almost circular ellipse around Mars matching with Phobos, then as a final maneuver they must settle the ship on the tiny moon - simple maneuvers made fussy by one thing only; Phobos has a period of about ten hours; the Stone would have to arrive not only at the right place with the right speed and direction, but also at the right time. After the bicycles were taken aboard the ship would have to be nursed along while still fairly far out if she were to fall to an exact rendezvous.

Everybody worked on it but Buster, Meade working under Hazel's tutelage. Pollux continued to check by radar their approach to their cargo. Roger Stone had run through and discarded two trial solutions and was roughing out another which, at last, seemed to be making sense when Pollux announced that his latest angulation of the radar data showed that they were nearly as close as they would get.

His father unstrapped himself and floated to a port. "Where is it? Good heavens, we're practically sitting on it. Let's get busy, boys."

"I'm coming, too," announced Hazel.

"Me, too!" agreed Lowell.

Meade reached out and snagged him. "That's what you think, Buster. You and Sis are going to play a wonderful game called, "What's for dinner?" Have fun, folks." She headed aft, towing the infant against his opposition.

Outside the bicycles looked considerably farther away. Cas glanced at the mass and said. "Maybe I ought to go across on my suit jet, Dad? It would save time."

"I strongly doubt it. Try the heaving line, Pol." Pollux snapped the light messenger line to a padeye. Near the weighted end had been fastened a half a dozen large hooks fashioned of 6-gauge wire. His first heave seemed to be strong enough but it missed the cluster by a considerable margin,

"Let me have it, Pol," Castor demanded.

"Let him be," ordered their father. "So help me, this is the last time I'm going into space without a proper line-throwing gun. Make note of that, Cas. Put it on the shopping list when we go inside."

"Aye aye, sir."

The second throw was seen to hit the mass, but when Pol heaved in the line came away, the hooks having failed to catch. He tried again. This time the floating line came taut.