engineering notes from files so old that no one knew why theystill existed. Films, recorded data, technical histories and newspaperreports ... nothing was spared.
Slowly at first and then with almost magical speed, the ancient Vanguardcame to life. Her structure took shape. Her tankage and guidance werereproduced. Like long atrophied nerves and muscles her controls andelectrical system once more hummed with power. Her engines wereduplicated and tested (though not without an explosion or two), and hergyros were run in (by shuddering engineers who were accustomed tohitting Marsport on the nose with a box half the size). And tiny Beta,her wee antennas and Hoffman solar cells carefully fitted into place,now had a twin sister enshrined in the Smithsonian Institution.
Jordan reflected that it was a solution bordering on genius even thoughhe was forced to admit that Senator Darius was its foremost architect.His feeling for the old coyote was still something less than brotherly,though forced association had revealed unsuspected and valuablenegotiative skills.
* * * * *
One morning several weeks later Jordan sat before his desk which waspiled high with unanswered correspondence. He drank lemonade and glaredacross at Clements whose desk was piled even higher.
"I told you this was going to be your baby," Jordan said, "but I guess Ican't make it stick. There's too much of this stuff." He waved at thestacks of paper. "Where does all this junk come from?"
Clements picked up a letter at random.
"This one," he said, "is from the Dupont Chemical Corp. They want us tosend them the quality control specification for the hydrazine that wasused as fuel in the first launch. They say they can't proceed till theyhave it."
He tossed the letter aside and picked up another. "Here's a purchaserequest for four hundred yards of sailcloth. Now what the hell do yousuppose they want sailcloth for?"
"Maybe it's for another project," said Jordan, cramming half a doughnutinto his mouth. "I found one yesterday for hypodermic needles. On top ofthat it wasn't signed."
"That figures," said Clements tossing the letter aside and picking upanother. "Now, how's this ... good grief! The Ancient Order ofHibernians, if you please, formally requests that ... since '58 Beta waslaunched on St. Patrick's day ... to do otherwise with this launch wouldbe unthinkable, sacrilegious, treasonable, etc, etc."
Jordan froze in his chair.
"That's the one!" His voice sounded faintly strangled. "That's the onethat'll kill us, right there! I have a feeling for these things. Howlong till St. Patrick's day?"
Clements looked at his desk calendar. "Three weeks."
Jordan's eyes rolled upward. "We're dead!" he said, buzzing for Gerry."Dead as mackeral."
Gerry answered, and Jordan asked for General Criswell.
* * * * *
A fine seabreeze was whipping ashore at Canaveral Space Port; not strongenough to be a nuisance, but strong enough to blow Senator Darius'emerald green tie persistently around behind his neck. He was stillpuffing a little from his climb up the steps to the balcony on top ofthe Space Control Center. As soon as he caught his breath he tugged atJordan's elbow and said, "Mr. Jordan, I have the great honor tointroduce to you Mr. Patrick McGuire, president of the Ancient Order ofHibernians."
Jordan shook hands, noticing as he did so that Mr. McGuire was carryingsomething that closely resembled a hip flask. It had a bright green silkribbon tied around the neck.
"It's a pleasure," he said. "What's in the bottle?"
Mr. McGuire laughed a rich bellow.
"That, me friend," he said in a brogue so carefully cultivated thatJordan winced almost visibly, "is a bottle o' wather from the RiverShannon, fer the christening', b'dad 'n' bejabers."
"The christening?" Jordan echoed hollowly.
"Indade, the christenin' ... with the Senator's kind permission I'll nowstep down and officiate. One piddlin' smash at the nose of yonder rocketis all I ask. One smash and a Hail Mary, and she's off to Glory!"
"Jordan ..." began the Senator.
"Now, Senator ..." began Jordan.
But the bullhorn above them drowned out everything and effectivelystalled the plans of the Hibernians by announcing in deafening syllablesthat everyone was to clear the launch area.
In the distance Jordan observed dozens of tiny figures scuttling fromthe gleaming Vanguard toward something that looked vaguely like a turtlebut which he had heard was called a blockhouse.
"I think," he said in unutterable relief, "that we're about ready tolaunch."
Jordan finally found Clements in the milling throng. They stood at thebalcony rail staring fixedly at the Vanguard as the count progresseddownward with what seemed dreadful slowness.
"How long _is_ a second, anyway?" growled Jordan peevishly.
The countdown proceeded to minus twenty minutes ... minus fifteenminutes. Then came the quick announcement, "The count is T minus twelveminutes and holding."
"Twelve minutes and holding?" repeated Jordan jumpily. "What does thatmean?"
"It means," answered Clements with just a touch of superiority, "thatthey have stopped the count at T minus twelve minutes because somethingis wrong. It will delay the launch."
* * * * *
Jordan wrung his hands fretfully.
"Something wrong? I never heard of such a thing. What could possibly gowrong?"
"Oh," ventured Clements, "I suppose there are a few things about thisrocket that could fail to function under unusual circumstances." Hesnubbed out his cigarette. "After all, your watch stops sometimes,doesn't it?"
"Sometimes," Jordan admitted sourly, "but never at T minus twelveminutes."
After a short time the bullhorn shook the area with the news that thecount had resumed. Jordan borrowed Clements' binoculars and staredfixedly at the abandoned Vanguard. Suddenly he started violently. "MyGod, Clem," he yelled, "it's on fire! There's smoke flying out rightthere in the middle. Look!"
Clements took a quick glance.
"Relax, chief," he said reassuringly. "It's oxygen coming from a vent.They can't seal the oxygen tank till just before launch, or it'll blowup."
"Oh, it can't blow up," quavered Jordan, going to pieces. "But it will.I feel it in my bones. It's going to blow up ... ker BOOM!"
Clements patted him on the back.
"Stop worrying, chief. It's going to work just fine. You wait and see."
Jordan shook his head in disbelief. "kerBOOM!" he said faintly.
The bullhorn announced T minus four minutes. To divert Jordan'sattention Clements suggested that he watch the pilots of the photographyships who were about to board. With some difficulty Jordan focussed theinstrument and observed the two pilots walk across the apron in front ofthe main operations building and climb into their small ships. A bluehalo formed softly around the stern of each as they cut on the enginesand brought them up to idle.
Then suddenly the count was a T minus ten seconds. 9 ... 8 ... 7 ... 6Jordan thought he was going to faint ... 3 ... 2 ... 1 Zero!
There was a dazzling flash of igniting kerosene and lox which causedJordan to jump into the air, a terrible burst of smoke and dust and thenan overwhelming, harsh shattering roar such as had not disturbedCanaveral Space Port in more than a hundred years.
Deafened Clements looked at Jordan; saw his lips form the work "kerBOOM."
But in spite of all the evidence to the contrary the Vanguard was offthe launcher, balancing with unbelievable, rocklike steadiness on thatflickering, fiery column. Slowly, almost painfully the thing rose,gathered speed, pitched slowly eastward and bored triumphantly into thesky. Beside it, a thousand yards to the north and south, sped the photoships, their drive haloes still scarcely brighter than when idling onthe ground. With cameras whirring they escorted '58 Beta into space forthe second time.
There was considerable confusion, some hoarse cheering and a great dealof milling around. Clements got a grip on Jordan and steered him to theAstroBar where two quick ones put him back t
ogether again.
"Now, what we should do," Clements suggested, "is to go down to thetrajectory section and find out the latest word on the launch analysis."
Jordan hiccupped.
"Why?" he said, a little belligerently. "What's to analyze? We got itlaunched, didn't we? What more d'they want? Besides, I like it here."
* * * * *
Forty five minutes later the reports clattered in from Cairo andWoomera. In the Port Commander's private briefing room a young womanbrought a sheaf