“Why?” asked Ostrander.

  “We don’t want to build up too much velocity. We’re already going 30 miles a second.”

  “Mars is a long way off.”

  “And if we miss, we go shooting past. Then where are we?”

  “Sutton, you’re a pessimist. A shame to find morbid tendencies in one so young.” This from von Gluck.

  “I’d rather be a live pessimist than a dead comedian.”

  The new sleeve was duly cast, machined and fitted. Anxiously the alignment of the data disks was checked. “Well,” said Verona dubiously, “There’s wobble. How much that affects the functioning remains to be seen. We can take some of it out by shimming the mount—”

  Shims of tissue paper were inserted and the wobble seemed to be reduced. “Now—feed in the data,” said Sutton. “Let’s see how we stand.” Coordinates were fed into the system; the indicator swung. “Enlarge sail cant four degrees,” said von Gluck, “we’re making too much left concentric. Projected course…” he tapped buttons, watched the bright line extend across the screen, swing around a dot representing the center of gravity of Mars. “I make it an elliptical pass, about twenty thousand miles out. That’s at present acceleration, and it should toss us right back at Earth.”

  “Great. Simply great. Let’s go, 25!” This was Lynch. “I’ve heard of guys dropping flat on their faces and kissing Earth when they put down. Me, I’m going to live in a cave the rest of my life.”

  Sutton went to look at the data disks. The wobble was slight but perceptible. “Good Lord,” he said huskily. “The other end of the shaft is loose too.”

  Lynch started to spit curses; Verona’s shoulders slumped. “Let’s get to work and fix it.”

  Another bearing was cast, machined, polished, mounted. The disks wobbled, scraped. Mars, an ocher disk, shouldered ever closer in from the side. With the computer unreliable, the cadets calculated and plotted the course manually. The results were at slight but significant variance with those of the computer. The cadets looked dourly at each other. “Well,” growled Ostrander, “There’s error. Is it the instruments? The calculation? The plotting? Or the computer?”

  Culpepper said in a subdued voice, “Well, we’re not about to crash head-on at any rate.”

  Verona went back to study the computer. “I can’t imagine why the bearings don’t work better…The mounting brackets—could they have shifted?” He removed the side housing, studied the frame, then went to the case for tools.

  “What are you going to do?” demanded Sutton.

  “Try to ease the mounting brackets around. I think that’s our trouble.”

  “Leave me alone! You’ll bugger the machine so it’ll never work.”

  Verona paused, looked questioningly around the group. “Well? What’s the verdict?”

  “Maybe we’d better check with the old man,” said Ostrander nervously.,

  “All well and good—but you know what he’ll say.”

  “Let’s deal cards. Ace of spades goes to ask him.”

  Culpepper received the ace. He knocked on Henry Belt’s door. There was no response. He started to knock again, but restrained himself.

  He returned to the group. “Wait till he shows himself. I’d rather crash into Mars than bring forth Henry Belt and his red book.”

  The ship crossed the orbit of Mars well ahead of the looming red planet. It came toppling at them with a peculiar clumsy grandeur, a mass obviously bulking and globular, but so fine and clear was the detail, so absent the perspective, that the distance and size might have been anything. Instead of swinging in a sharp elliptical curve back toward Earth, the ship swerved aside in a blunt hyperbola and proceeded outward, now at a velocity of close to fifty miles a second. Mars receded astern and to the side. A new part of space lay ahead. The sun was noticeably smaller. Earth could no longer be differentiated from the stars. Mars departed quickly and politely, and space seemed lonely and forlorn.

  Henry Belt had not appeared for two days. At last Culpepper went to knock on the door—once, twice, three times: a strange face looked out. It was Henry Belt, face haggard, skin like pulled taffy. His eyes were red and glared, his hair seemed matted and more unkempt than hair a quarter-inch long should be.

  But he spoke in his quiet, clear voice. “Mr. Culpepper, your merciless din has disturbed me. I am quite put out with you.”

  “Sorry, sir. We feared that you were ill.”

  Henry Belt made no response. He looked past Culpepper, around the circle of faces. “You gentlemen are unwontedly serious. Has this presumptive illness of mine caused you all distress?”

  Sutton spoke in a rush, “The computer is out of order.”

  “Why then, you must repair it.”

  “It’s a matter of altering the housing. If we do it incorrectly—”

  “Mr. Sutton, please do not harass me with the hour-by-hour minutiae of running the ship.”

  “But, sir, the matter has become serious; we need your advice. We missed the Mars turnaround—”

  “Well, I suppose there’s always Jupiter. Must I explain the basic elements of astrogation to you?”

  “But the computer’s out of order—definitely.”

  “Then, if you wish to return to Earth, you must perform the calculations with pencil and paper. Why is it necessary to explain the obvious?”

  “Jupiter is a long way out,” said Sutton in a shrill voice. “Why can’t we just turn around and go home?” This last was almost a whisper.

  “I see I’ve been too easy on you cads,” said Henry Belt. “You stand around idly; you chatter nonsense while the machinery goes to pieces and the ship flies at random. Everybody into space suits for sail inspection. Come now. Let’s have some snap. What are you all? Walking corpses? You, Mr. Culpepper, why the delay?”

  “It occurred to me, sir, that we are approaching the asteroid belt. As I am chief of the watch I consider it my duty to cant sail to swing us around the area.”

  “You may do this; then join the rest in hull-and-sail inspection.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The cadets donned space suits, Sutton with the utmost reluctance. Out into the dark void they went, and now here was loneliness indeed. When they returned, Henry Belt had returned to his compartment.

  “As Mr. Belt points out, we have no great choice,” said Ostrander. “We missed Mars, so let’s hit Jupiter. Luckily it’s in good position—otherwise we’d have to swing out to Saturn or Uranus—”

  “They’re off behind the sun,” said Lynch. “Jupiter’s our last chance.”

  “Let’s do it right then. I say, let’s make one last attempt to set those confounded bearings…”

  But now it seemed as if-the wobble and twist had been eliminated. The disks tracked perfectly, the accuracy monitor glowed green.

  “Great!” yelled Lynch. “Feed it the dope. Let’s get going! All sail for Jupiter. Good Lord, but we’re having a trip!”

  “Wait till it’s over,“said Sutton. Since his return from sail inspection, he had stood to one side, cheeks pinched, eyes staring, “It’s not over yet. And maybe it’s not meant to be.”

  The other five pretended not to have heard him. The computer spat out figures and angles. There were a billion miles to travel. Acceleration was less, due to the diminution in the intensity of sunlight. At least a month must pass before Jupiter came close.

  VI

  The ship, great sail spread to the fading sunlight, fled like a ghost—out, always out. Each of the cadets had quietly performed the same calculation, and arrived at the same result. If the swing around Jupiter was not performed with exactitude, if the ship was not slung back like a stone on a string, there was nothing beyond. Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto were far around the sun; the ship, speeding at a hundred miles a second, could not be halted by the waning gravity of the sun, nor yet sufficiently accelerated in a concentric direction by sail and jet into a true orbit. The very nature of the sail made it useless as a brake, always the thrust was outward.

  Within the hull seven men lived and thought, and the interrelationships worked and stirred like yeast in a vat of decaying fruit. The fundamental similarity, the human identity of the seven men, was utterly canceled; apparent only were the disparities. Each cadet appeared to others only as a walking characteristic, and Henry Belt was an incomprehensible Thing, who appeared from his compartment at unpredictable times, to move quietly here and there with the blind, blank grin of an archaic Attic hero.

  Jupiter loomed and bulked. The ship, at last within reach of the Jovian gravity, sidled over to meet it. The cadets gave ever more careful attention to the computer, checking and counter-checking the instructions. Verona was the most assiduous at this, Sutton the most harassed and ineffectual. Lynch growled and cursed and sweat; Ostrander complained in a thin, peevish voice. Von Gluck worked with the calm of pessimistic fatalism; Culpepper seemed unconcerned, almost debonair; his blandness bewildered Ostrander, infuriated Lynch, awoke a malignant hate in Sutton. Verona and von Gluck, on the other hand seemed to derive strength and refreshment from Culpepper’s placid acceptance of the situation. Henry Belt said nothing. Occasionally he emerged from his compartment to survey the wardroom and the cadets with the detached interest of a visitor to an asylum.

  It was Lynch who made the discovery. He signaled it with an odd growl of sheer dismay, which brought a resonant questioning sound from Sutton. “My God, my God,” muttered Lynch.

  Verona was at his side. “What’s the trouble?”

  “Look. This gear. When we replaced the disks we dephased the whole apparatus one notch. This white dot and this other white dot should synchronize. They’re one sprocket apart. All the results would check and be consistent because they’d all be off by the same factor.”

  Verona sprang into action. Off came the housing, off came various components. Gently he lifted the gear, set it back into correct alignment. The other cadets leaned over him as he worked, except Culpepper who was chief of the watch.

  Henry Belt appeared. “You gentlemen are certainly diligent in your navigation,” he said. “Perfectionists almost.”

  “We do our best,” greeted Lynch between set teeth. “It’s a damn shame sending us out with a machine like this.”

  The red book appeared. “Mr. Lynch, I mark you down not for your private sentiments, which are of course yours to entertain, but for voicing them and thereby contributing to an unhealthy atmosphere of despairing and hysterical pessimism.”

  A tide of red crept up from Lynch’s neck. He bent over the computer, made no comment. But Sutton suddenly cried out, “What else do you expect from us? We came out here to learn, not to suffer, or to fly on forever!” He gave a ghastly laugh. Henry Belt listened patiently. “Think of it!” cried Sutton. “The seven of us. In this capsule, forever!”

  “I am afraid that I must charge you two demerits for your outburst, Mr. Sutton. A good spaceman maintains his dignity at all costs.”

  Lynch looked up from the computer. “Well, now we’ve got a corrected reading. Do you know what it says?”

  Henry Belt turned him a look of polite inquiry.

  “We’re going to miss,” said Lynch. “We’re going to pass by just as we passed Mars. Jupiter is pulling us around and sending us out toward Gemini.”

  The silence was thick in the room. Henry Belt turned to look at

  Culpepper, who was standing by the porthole, photographing Jupiter with his personal camera.

  “Mr. Culpepper?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You seemed unconcerned by the prospect which Mr. Sutton has set forth.”

  “I hope it’s not imminent.”

  “How do you propose to avoid it?”

  “I imagine that we will radio for help, sir.”

  “You forget that I have destroyed the radio.”

  “I remember noting a crate marked ‘Radio Parts’ stored in the starboard jet-pod.”

  “I am sorry to disillusion you, Mr. Culpepper. That case is mislabeled.”

  Ostrander jumped to his feet, left the wardroom. There was the sound of moving crates. A moment of silence. Then he returned. He glared at Henry Belt. “Whisky. Bottles of whisky.”

  Henry Belt nodded. “I told you as much.”

  “But now we have no radio,” said Lynch in an ugly voice.

  “We never have had a radio, Mr. Lynch. You were warned that you would have to depend on your own resources to bring us home. You have failed, and in the process doomed me as well as yourself. Incidentally, I must mark you all down ten demerits for a faulty cargo check.”

  “Demerits,” said Ostrander in a bleak voice.

  “Now, Mr. Culpepper,” said Henry Belt. “What is your next proposal?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  Verona spoke in a placatory voice. “What would you do, sir, if you were in our position?”

  Henry Belt shook his head. “I am an imaginative man, Mr. Verona, but there are certain leaps of the mind which are beyond my powers.” He returned to his compartment.

  Von Gluck looked curiously at Culpepper. “It is a fact. You’re not at all concerned.”

  “Oh, I’m concerned. But I believe that Mr. Belt wants to get home too. He’s too good a spaceman not to know exactly what he’s doing.” The door from Henry Belt’s compartment slid back. Henry Belt stood in the opening. “Mr. Culpepper, I chanced to overhear your remark, and I now note down ten demerits against you. This attitude expresses a complacence as dangerous as Mr. Sutton’s utter funk.” He looked about the room. “Pay no heed to Mr. Culpepper. He is wrong. Even if I could repair this disaster, I would not raise a hand. For I expect to die in space.”

  VII

  The sail was canted vectorless, edgewise to the sun. Jupiter was a smudge astern. There were five cadets in the wardroom. Culpepper, Verona, and von Gluck sat talking in low voices. Ostrander and Lynch lay crouched, arms to knees, faces to the wall. Sutton had gone two days before. Quietly donning his space suit, he had stepped into the exit chamber and thrust himself headlong into space. A propulsion unit gave him added speed, and before any of the cadets could intervene he was gone.

  Shortly thereafter Lynch and Ostrander succumbed to inanition, a kind of despondent helplessness: manic-depression in its most stupefying phase. Culpepper the suave, Verona the pragmatic, and von Gluck the sensitive remained.

  They spoke quietly to themselves, out of earshot of Henry Belt’s room. “I still believe,” said Culpepper, “that somehow there is a means to get ourselves out of this mess, and that Henry Belt knows it.”

  Verona said, “I wish I could think so…We’ve been over it a hundred times. If we set sail for Saturn or Neptune or Uranus, the outward vector of thrust plus the outward vector of our momentum will take us far beyond Pluto before we’re anywhere near. The plasma jets could stop us if we had enough energy, but the shield can’t supply it, and we don’t have another power source…”

  Von Gluck hit his fist into his hand. “Gentlemen,” he said in a soft delighted voice, “I believe we have sufficient energy at hand. We will use the sail. Remember? It is bellied. It can function as a mirror. It spreads five square miles of surface. Sunlight out here is thin—but so long as we collect enough of it—”

  “I understand!” said Culpepper. “We back off the hull till the reactor is at the focus of the sail and turn on the jets!”

  Verona said dubiously, “We’ll still be receiving radiation pressure. And what’s worse, the jets will impinge back on the sail. Effect—cancellation. We’ll be nowhere.”

  “If we cut the center out of the sail—just enough to allow the plasma through—we’d beat that objection. And as for the radiation pressure—we’ll surely do better with the plasma drive.”

  “What do we use to make plasma? We don’t have the stock.”

  “Anything that can be ionized. The radio, the computer, your shoes, my shirt, Culpepper’s camera, Henry Belt’s whisky…”

  VIII

  The angel-wagon came up to meet sail 25, in orbit beside Sail 40, which was just making ready to take out a new crew.

  The cargo carrier drifted near, eased into position. Three men sprang across to Sail 40, a few hundred yards behind 25, tossed lines back to the carrier, pulled bales of cargo and equipment across the gap.

  The five cadets and Henry Belt, clad in space suits, stepped out into the sunlight. Earth spread below, green and blue, white and brown, the contours so precious and dear as to bring tears to the eyes. The cadets transferring cargo to Sail 40 gazed at them curiously as they worked. At last they were finished, and the six men of Sail 25 boarded the carrier.

  “Back safe and sound, eh Henry?” said the pilot. “Well, I’m always surprised.”

  Henry Belt made no answer. The cadets stowed their cargo, and standing by the port, took a final look at Sail 25. The carrier retro-jetted; the two sails seemed to rise above them.

  The lighter nosed in and out of the atmosphere; then braking, it extended its wings and glided to an easy landing on the Mojave Desert.

  The cadets, their legs suddenly loose and weak to the unaccustomed gravity, limped after Henry Belt to the carry-all, seated themselves, and were conveyed to the administration complex. They alighted from the carry-all, and now Henry Belt motioned the five to the side.

  “Here, gentlemen, is where I leave you. Tonight I will check my red book and prepare my official report. But I believe I can present you an unofficial resume of my impressions. Mr. Lynch and Mr. Ostrander, I feel that you are ill-suited either for command or for any situation which might inflict prolonged emotional pressure upon you. I cannot recommend you for space duty.

  “Mr. von Gluck, Mr. Culpepper, and Mr. Verona, all of you meet my minimum requirements for a recommendation, although I shall write the words ’Especially Recommended’ only beside the names ‘Clyde von Gluck’ and ‘Marcus Verona.’ You brought the sail back to Earth by essentially faultless navigation.