Smith, E E 'Doc' - Spacehounds Of IPC

VIP免费

2024-11-29 0 0 424.82KB 202 页 5.9玖币

侵权投诉

Space Hounds of IPC

(A Tale of the Inter-Plantary Corporation)

By Edward E. Smith

CHAPTER 1

The IPV "Arcturus" Sets Out for Mars—

A narrow football of steel, the Inter-Planetary Vessel Arcturus stood upright

in her berth

in the dock like an egg in its cup. A hundred feet across and a hundred and

seventy feet

deep was that gigantic bowl, its walls supported by the structural steel and

concrete of

the dock and lined with hard-packed bumper-layers of hemp and fiber. High into

the air

extended the upper half of the ship of space—a sullen gray expanse of fifty-

inch

hardened steel armor, curving smoothly upward to a needle prow. Countless

hundreds

of fine vertical scratches marred every inch of her surface, and here and

there the

stubborn metal was grooved and scored to a depth of inches—each scratch and

score

the record of an attempt of some wandering cosmic body to argue the right-of-

way with

the stupendous mass of that man-made cruiser of the void.

A burly young man made his way through the throng about the entrance,

nodded

unconcernedly to the gatekeeper, and joined the stream of passengers flowing

through

the triple doors of the double air-lock and down a corridor to the center of

the vessel.

However, instead of entering one of the elevators which were whisking the

passengers

up to their staterooms in the upper half of the enormous football, he in some

way

caused an opening to appear in an apparently blank steel wall and stepped

through it

into the control room.

"Hi, Breck!" the burly one called, as he strode up to the instrument-desk

of the

chief pilot and tossed his bag carelessly into a corner. "Behold your computer

in the

flesh! What's all this howl and fuss about poor computation?"

"Ho, Steve!" The chief pilot smiled as he shook hands cordially. "Glad to

see you

again—but don't try to kid the old man. I'm simple enough to believe almost

anything,

but some things just aren't being done. We have been yelling, and yelling

loud, for

trained computers ever since they started riding us about every one-centimeter

change

in acceleration, but I know that you're no more an I-P computer than I am a

Digger

Indian. They don't shoot sparrows with coast-defense guns!"

"Thanks for the compliment, Breck, but I'm your computer for this trip,

anyway.

Newton, the good old egg, knows what you fellows are up against and is going

to do

something about it, if he has to lick all the rest of the directors to do it.

He knew that I

was loose for a couple of weeks and asked me to come along this trip to see

what I

could see. I'm to check the observatory data—they don't know I'm aboard—take

the

peaks and valleys off your acceleration curve, if possible, and report to

Newton just

what I find out and what I think should be done about it. How early am I?"

While the

newcomer was talking, he had stripped the covers from a precise scale model of

the

solar system and from a large and complicated calculating machine and had set

to work

without a wasted motion or instant—scaling off upon the model the positions of

the

various check-stations and setting up long and involved integrals and

equations upon

the calculator.

The older man studied the broad back of the younger, bent over his

computations, and a tender, almost fatherly smile came over his careworn face

as he

replied:

"Early? You? Just like you always were — minus fifteen seconds on zero.

The

final dope is due right now." He plugged the automatic recorder and speaker

into a

circuit marked "Observatory", waited until a tiny light above the plug flashed

green, and

spoke.

"IPV Arcturus; Breckenridge, Chief Pilot; trip number forty three twenty

nine.

Ready for final supplementary route and flight data, Tellus to Mars."

"Meteoric swarms still too numerous for safe travel along the scheduled

route,"

came promptly from the speaker. "You must stay further away from the plane of

the

ecliptic. The ether will be clear for you along route E2-P6-W4I-K3-Ri9-S7-Mi4.

You will

hold a constant acceleration of 981.27 centimeters between initial and final

check

stations. Your take-off will be practically unobstructed, but you will have to

use the

utmost caution in landing upon Mars, as in order to avoid a weightless detour

and a loss

of thirty one minutes you must pass very close to both the Martian satellites.

To do so

safely you must pass the last meteorological station, Mi4, on schedule time

plus or

minus five seconds, at scheduled velocity plus or minus ten meters, with

exactly the

given negative acceleration of 981.27 centimeters, and exactly upon the pilot

ray Mi4

will have set for you."

"All x." Breckenridge studied his triplex chronometer intently, then

unplugged and

glanced around the control room, in various parts of which half a dozen

assistants were

loafing at their stations.

"Control and power check-out — Hipe!" he barked. "Driving converters and

projectors!"

The first assistant scanned his meters narrowly as he swung a multi-point

switch

in a flashing arc. "Converter efficiency 100, projector reactivity 100; on

each of numbers

one to forty-five inclusive. All x."

"Dirigible projectors!"

Two more gleaming switches leaped from point to point. "Converter

efficiency

100, projector reactivity 100, dirigibility 100, on each of numbers one to

thirty-two,

inclusive, of upper band; and on each of numbers one to thirty-two, inclusive,

of lower

band. All x."

"Gyroscopes!"

"35,000. Drivers in equilibrium at ten degrees plus. All x."

"Upper lights and lookout plates!"

The second assistant was galvanized into activity, and upon a screen

before him

there appeared a view as though he were looking directly upward from the prow

of the

great vessel. The air above them was full of aircraft of all shapes and sizes,

and

occasionally the image of one of that flying horde flared into violet splendor

upon the

screen as it was caught in the mighty, roving beam of one of the twelve ultra-

light

projectors under test.

"Upper lights and lookout plates—all x," the second assistant reported,

and other

assistants came to attention as the check-out went on.

"Lower lights and lookout plates!"

"All x," was the report, after each of the twelve ultralights of the

stern had swung

around in its supporting brackets, illuminating every recess of the dark

depths of the

bottom well of the berth and throwing the picture upon another screen in

brilliant violet

relief.

"Lateral and vertical detectors!"

"Laterals XP27io—all x. Verticals AJ429O—all x."

"Receptors!"

"15,270 kilofranks—all x."

"Accumulators!"

"700,000 kilofrank-hours—all x."

Having thus checked and tested every function of his department,

Breckenridge

plugged into "Captain," and when the green light went on:

"Chief pilot check-out—all x," he reported briefly.

"All x," acknowledged the speaker, and the chief pilot unplugged. Fifteen

minutes

remained, during which time one department head after another would report to

the

captain of the liner that everything in his charge was ready for the

stupendous flight.

"All x, Steve?" Breckenridge turned to the computer. "How do you check

acceleration and power with the observatory?"

"Not so good, old bean," the younger man frowned in thought. "They figure

astronomers, not navigators. They've made no allowances for anything, not even

the

reversal—and I figure four thousandths for that and for minor detours. Then

there's

check-station error . . ."

"Check-station errors! Why, they're always right— that's what they're

for!"

"Don't fool yourself—they've got troubles of their own, the same as

anybody else.

In fact, from a study of the charts of the last few weeks, I'm pretty sure

that E 2 is at

least four thousand kilometers this side of where he thinks he is, that W4i is

ten or

twelve thousand beyond his station, and that they've both got a lateral

displacement

that's simply fierce. I'm going to check up, and argue with them about it as

we pass.

Then there's another thing—they figure to only two places, and we've got to

have the

third place almost solid if we expect to get a smooth curve. A hundredth of a

centimeter

of acceleration means a lot on a long trip when they're holding us as close as

they are.

We'll ride this trip on 981.286 centimeters—with our scheduled mass that means

thirty

six point oh four seven kilofranks plus equilibrium power. All set to go," the

computer

stated, as he changed, by fractions of seconds of arc, the course-plotters of

the

automatic integrating goniometer.

"You're the doctor—but I'm glad it's you that'll have to explain to the

observatory,"

and Breckenridge set his exceedingly delicate excess power potentiometer

exactly upon

the indicated figure. "Well, we've got a few minutes left for a chin-chin

before we lift her

off."

"What's all this commotion about? Dish out the low-down."

"Well, it's like this, Steve. We pilots are having one sweet time—we're

being

growled at on every trip. The management squawks if we're thirty seconds plus

minus at the terminal, and the passenger department squalls if we change

acceleration

five centimeters total enroute—claims it upsets the dainty customers and loses

business

for the road. They're tightening up on us all the time. A couple of years ago,

you

remember, it didn't make any difference what we did with the acceleration as

long as we

checked in somewhere near zero time—we used to spin 'em dizzy when we reversed

the halfway station—but that kind of stuff doesn't go any more. We've got to

hold the

acceleration constant and close to normal, got to hold our schedule on zero,

plus or

minus ten seconds, and yet we've got to make any detours they tell us to, such

as this

seven-million kilometer thing they handed us just now. To make things worse,

we've got

to take orders at every check-station, and yet we get the blame for everything

that

happens as a consequence of obeying those orders! Of course, I know as well as

you

do that it's rotten technique to change acceleration at every check-station;

but we've told

'em over and over that we can't do any better until they put a real computer

on every

ship and tell the check-stations to report meteorites and other obstructions

to us and

then to let us alone. So you'd better recommend us some computers!"

"You're getting rotten computation, that's a sure thing, and I don't

blame you

pilots for yelling, but I don't believe that you've got the right answer. I

can't help but think

that the astronomers are laying down on the job. They're so sure that you

pilots are to

blame that it hasn't occurred to them to check up on themselves very

carefully.

However, we'll know pretty quick, and then we'll take steps."

"I hope so—but say, Steve, I'm worried about using that much plus

equilibrium

power. Remember we've got to hit Mi4 absolutely all x, or plenty heads will

drop."

"I'll say they will: I know just how the passengers will howl if we hold

them

weightless for half an hour, waiting for those two moons to get out of the

way, and I

know just what the manager will do if we check in thirty-one minutes plus.

Wow! He'll

swell up and bust, sure. But don't worry, Breck—if we don't check in all x,

anybody can

have my head that wants it, and I'm taking full responsibility, you know."

"You're welcome to it." Breckenridge shrugged and turned the conversation

into a

lighter vein. "Speaking of weightlessness, it's funny how many weight-fiends

there are in

the world, isn't it? You'd think the passengers would enjoy a little

weightlessness

occasionally—especially the fat ones—but they don't. But say, while I think of

it, how

come you were here and loose to make this check-up? I thought you were out

with the

other two of the Big Three, solving all the mysteries of the Universe ?"

"Had to stay in this last trip—been doing some work on the ether, force-

文档加载中……请稍候！
如果长时间未打开，您也可以点击刷新试试。

下载文档到电脑，查找使用更方便

5.9 玖币 0人已下载

立即下载 VIP免费下载

摘要：

SpaceHoundsofIPC(ATaleoftheInter-PlantaryCorporation)ByEdwardE.SmithCHAPTER1TheIPV"Arcturus"SetsOutforMars—Anarrowfootballofsteel,theInter-PlanetaryVesselArcturusstooduprightinherberthinthedocklikeanegginitscup.Ahundredfeetacrossandahundredandseventyfeetdeepwasthatgiganticbowl,itswallssupportedbythe...

展开>> 收起<<

Smith, E E 'Doc' - Spacehounds Of IPC.pdf

共202页,预览5页

还剩页未读，继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

Smith, E E 'Doc' - Spacehounds Of IPC

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: