«Junior – did you do that?»

The boy shifted his eyes. «No, Pop. It ... it was a meteor.»

Schacht looked puzzled. Pemberton snorted. «I had just told him how the radar-guard can blast to miss a meteor. He's lying.»

Schacht ran through the process he called «making up his mind,» then answered, «Junior never lies. Shame on you, a grown man, to try to put the blame on a helpless boy. I shall report you, sir. Come, Junior.»

Jake grabbed his arm. «Captain, I want those controls photographed for fingerprints before this man leaves the room. It was not a meteor; the controls were dead, until this boy switched them on. Furthermore the anti-collision circuit sounds an alarm.»

Schacht looked wary. «This is ridiculous. I simply objected to the slur on my son's character. No harm has been done.»

«No harm, eh? How about broken arms – or necks? And wasted fuel, with more to waste before we're back in the groove. Do you know, Mister 'Old Spacehound,' just how precious a little fuel will be when we try to match orbits with Space Terminal – if we haven't got it? We may have to dump cargo to save the ship, cargo at $60,000 a ton on freight charges alone. Fingerprints will show the Commerce Commission whom to nick for it.»

When they were alone again Kelly asked anxiously, «You won't really have to jettison? You've got a maneuvering reserve.»

«Maybe we can't even get to Terminal. How long did she blast?»

Kelly scratched his head. «I was woozy myself.»

«We'll open the accelerograph and take a look.»

Kelly brightened. «Oh, sure! If the brat didn't waste too much, then we just swing ship and blast back the same length of time.»

Jake shook his head. «You forgot the changed mass-ratio.»

«Oh ... oh, yes!» Kelly looked embarrassed. Mass-ratio ... under power, the ship lost the weight of fuel burned. The thrust remained constant; the mass it pushed shrank. Getting back to proper position, course, and speed became a complicated problem in the calculus of ballistics. «But you can do it, can't you?»

«I'll have to. But I sure wish I had Weinstein here.»

Kelly left to see about his passengers; Jake got to work. He checked his situation by astronomical observation and by radar. Radar gave him all three factors quickly but with limited accuracy. Sights taken of Sun, Moon, and Earth gave him position, but told nothing of course and speed, at that time – nor could he afford to wait to take a second group of sights for the purpose.

Dead reckoning gave him an estimated situation, by adding Weinstein's predictions to the calculated effect of young Schacht's meddling. This checked fairly well with the radar and visual observations, but still he had no notion of whether or not he could get back in the groove and reach his destination; it was now necessary to calculate what it would take and whether or not the remaining fuel would be enough to brake his speed and match orbits.

In space, it does no good to reach your journey's end if you flash on past at miles per second, or even crawling along at a few hundred miles per hour. To catch an egg on a plate – don't bump!

He started doggedly to work to compute how to do it using the least fuel, but his little Marchant electronic calculator was no match for the tons of IBM computer at Supra-New York, nor was he Weinstein. Three hours later he had an answer of sorts. He called Kelly. «Captain? You can start by jettisoning Schacht & Son.»

«I'd like to. No way out, Jake?»

«I can't promise to get your ship in safely without dumping. Better dump now, before we blast. It's cheaper.»

Kelly hesitated; he would as cheerfully lose a leg. «Give me time to pick out what to dump.»

«Okay.» Pemberton returned sadly to his figures, hoping to find a saving mistake, then thought better of it. He called the radio room. «Get me Weinstein at Supra-New York.»

«Out of normal range.»

«I know that. This is the Pilot. Safety priority – urgent. Get a tight beam on them and nurse it.»

«Uh ... aye aye, sir. I'll try.»

Weinstein was doubtful. «Gripes, Jake, I can't pilot you.»

«Dammit, you can work problems for me!»

«What good is seven-place accuracy with bum data?»

«Sure, sure. But you know what instruments I've got; you know about how well I can handle them. Get me a better answer.»

«I'll try.» Weinstein called back four hours later. «Jake? Here's the dope: You planned to blast back to match your predicted speed, then make side corrections for position. Orthodox but uneconomical. Instead I had Mabel solve for it as one maneuver.»

«Good!»

«Not so fast. It saves fuel but not enough. You can't possibly get back in your old groove and then match Terminal without dumping.»

Pemberton let it sink in, then said, «I'll tell Kelly.»

«Wait a minute, Jake. Try this. Start from scratch.»

«Huh?»

«Treat it as a brand-new problem. Forget about the orbit on your tape. With your present course, speed, and position, compute the cheapest orbit to match with Terminal's. Pick a new groove.»

Pemberton felt foolish. «I never thought of that.»

«Of course not. With the ship's little one-lung calculator it'd take you three weeks to solve it. You set to record?»

«Sure.»

«Here's your data.» Weinstein started calling it off.

When they had checked it, Jake said, «That'll get me there?»

«Maybe. If the data you gave me is up to your limit of accuracy; if you can follow instructions as exactly as a robot, if you can blast off and make contact so precisely that you don't need side corrections, then you might squeeze home. Maybe. Good luck, anyhow.» The wavering reception muffled their goodbyes.

Jake signaled Kelly. «Don't jettison, Captain. Have your passengers strap down. Stand by to blast. Minus fourteen minutes.»

«Very well, Pilot.»

The new departure made and checked, he again had time to spare. He took out his unfinished letter, read it, then tore it up.

«Dearest Phyllis,» he started again, «I've been doing some hard thinking this trip and have decided that I've just been stubborn. What am I doing way out here? I like my home. I like to see my wife.

«Why should I risk my neck and your peace of mind to herd junk through the sky? Why hang around a telephone waiting to chaperone fatheads to the Moon – numbskulls who couldn't pilot a rowboat and should have stayed at home in the first place?

«Money, of course. I've been afraid to risk a change. I won't find another job that will pay half as well, but, if you are game, I'll ground myself and we'll start over. All my love,

«Jake»

He put it away and went to sleep, to dream that an entire troop of Junior Rocketeers had been quartered in his control room.

The close-up view of the Moon is second only to the space-side view of the Earth as a tourist attraction; nevertheless Pemberton insisted that all passengers strap down during the swing around to Terminal. With precious little fuel for the matching maneuver, he refused to hobble his movements to please sightseers.

Around the bulge of the Moon, Terminal came into sight – by radar only, for the ship was tail foremost. After each short braking blast Pemberton caught a new radar fix, then compared his approach with a curve he had plotted from Weinstein's figures – with one eye on the time, another on the 'scope, a third on the plot, and a fourth on his fuel gauges.

«Well, Jake?» Kelly fretted. «Do we make it?»

«How should I know? You be ready to dump.» They had agreed on liquid oxygen as the cargo to dump, since it could be let to boil out through the outer valves, without handling.

«Don't say it, Jake.»

«Damn it – I won't if I don't have to.» He was fingering his controls again; the blast chopped off his words. When it stopped, the radio maneuvering circuit was calling him.