youngster was saying, a bit desperately, “Calling New Denver Spaceport for landing instructions. Emergency. Emergency.”
Bill Wellingham said urgently, “Receiving you loud and clear, son.”
Jill said, “Tell him a doctor is on the way to give him instructions about his sister.”
Bill said, “A doctor is on the way to give you medical advice. Now listen, boy. Just to your left on that bank of buttons and dials and everything is a green switch. Right under it is a little sign saying Control Release. Now just push it down.”
The boy was peering into the screen before which he sat, listening anxiously. Finally, he shook his head and picked up a booklet from what must have been the radio table before him. He thumbed through it, licking what must have been dry lips.
He looked into the screen again and said, “Emergency. Emergency. Calling Dundee Spaceport. Calling Dundee Spaceport. Jimmy Barry, Lifeboat 2 of Spaceship Promised Land, calling for emergency landing instructions. Ten-year-old girl aboard, needing… must have… immediate medical attention. Calling Dundee Spaceport.”
The occupants of the control room at Spaceport New Denver slumped back into their chairs, aghast.
Jill said “What… what’s happened?”
Nobody answered her.
They could hear the Scottish spaceport answering. “Calling Jimmy Barry. Calling Jimmy Barry. We are receiving you clearly, Jimmy Barry. You are all right. You’ll be fine, lad. Now, here is what you must do, you know. Turn to your left. There on the bulkhead is a green lever. It is labeled Control Release. Simply press it down and we’ll take over, laddy. Don’t worry. Everything is all right.”
The thin voice came through again. “Calling Dundee Spaceport. Space Lifeboat 2, Promised Land. Please come in. I need landing instructions.”
Dick MaGruder said flatly, “He isn’t receiving.”
The boy peered anxiously into the screen. MaGruder had been able to get better amplification by now. The youngster’s face was quite clear.
After a time he took up his pamphlet again and thumbed through it. He muttered, quite audibly, “Maybe at this time of the day they’re on the far side of the planet. Maybe they can’t hear me.”
Bruce groaned. “We can hear you, kid. We can hear you.”
The boy looked up and said, obviously very carefully, and as clear as he could make his voice, “Calling Kiev Spaceport. Calling Kiev Spaceport. I do not speak Russian. Lifeboat 2, Spaceship Promised Land. Emergency. Emergency. Please send me landing instructions. Uh, over and out.”
The voice that responded was obviously foreign to the boy’s native language, heavy with accent. But it said, “Kiev Spaceport. We read you, we read you, young James Barry. You are coming in clearly. We can bring you down. The Soviet Complex has been most distressed by the terrible loss of the Promised Land and its refugees. We sorrow with you for the destruction of your parents and your comrades. However, now there is work at hand. What you must do is turn to your left. There on the board of control of your space lifeboat is a switch. It is green in color. You must drop it. Then we will be in control. Then we will bring you down. We have heard your other messages to America and to Great Britain. We will have an ambulance for your sad little sister. All will be well. Drop the switch.”
“Calling Kiev Spaceport. Calling Kiev Spaceport.”
Jill rolled her eyes upward in agony.
After a time. “Calling Peking Spaceport. Calling Peking Spaceport. Emergency. Calling Peking Spaceport.”
The voice that answered was in perfect English, and it answered immediately.
“Peking Spaceport calling Space Lifeboat 2, of the Promised Land. We are familiar with your problem, young Mr. Barry. We are afraid there is something wrong with your receiver. If you can receive us, immediately deflect the small green lever to your left which is labeled Control Release. You are in an American K-13 space lifecraft. We have the specifications, as do all nations which participate in space. We can bring you down quite safely. A China People’s Republic ambulance is awaiting with our most competent doctors specializing in burns for your so sorry little sister.”
There were perhaps fifteen minutes of silence, during which the boy was peering into the screen. Then he said, and there was a weary note in his voice:
“Mayday, Mayday. I think that’s what it’s called. Calling any Earth spaceport. Emergency, emergency. Space Lifeboat 2. Spaceship Promised Land. I have to have instructions for landing. I don’t know anything about this. There is nothing that makes any sense to me in the direction books. I have to have…I have to be told about coming down to land. I don’t know how to do it. My sister… I’m afraid my sister is dying. I have to have some doctor tell me what to do…I have to be told what to do…”
Jill said, sickly, “What’s involved? If he’s as old as he looks, he should be able to read the pamphlets.”
Bill Wellingham looked at her emptily. “You’ve been working here this long and you don’t know the answer to that? Spacecraft are landed from the ground up, not from space down. Sure, a pilot who has studied five years or so can land a specially designed spacecraft on some obscure satellite or something. But the average spacecraft, the liners, the cargo carriers, the lifecraft and all the rest are landed from the spaceports by competent pilots who know how to do it. It isn’t just that that kid up there is in his early teens. Even if he was a gung-ho scientist with a background in space navigation, he couldn’t land a lifeboat. I’d have my work cut out doing it, and I’m a pro.”
The boy’s voice was saying urgently, “Emergency, emergency. Calling any Earth Spaceport.”
Bruce Camaroon wearily flicked on his screen and said, “New Denver Spaceport calling Jimmy Barry, Space Lifeboat 2. Come in, Jimmy Barry.”
On the office space communications screen, which Dick had thrown on, they could hear the others.
“Dundee Spaceport calling Jimmy Barry...”
“Kiev Spaceport calling Space Lifeboat 2...”
“Peking Spaceport responding to James Barry. Come in, James Barry...”
There was despair on the boy’s face. “Maybe I’m too far out,” he muttered. “Nobody seems to hear me.”
* * * *
Later, when the new shift took over, Bruce Camaroon, Dick MaGruder, Bill Wellingham and Jill Farnsworth sat at the administration building’s canteen over coffee. Their expressions were all wan.
There was a group of fifteen or twenty at the far end of the room gathered about the commercial TV screen. The news commentator was replaying all that had thus far developed, with comments from space pilots, space authorities, and anyone else he could think of to call upon for opinions, including representatives of the foreign spaceports. Bruce Camaroon suspected that every other news commentator on the air, anywhere on Earth, was doing the same. Two women from landing control, watching the broadcast, were openly crying.
Will Breck came by briskly. He said over his shoulder to Bill, “We’ve got a fix on him. He’s about two days out and coming in at maximum.” He hurried on.
Bruce said to Bill Wellingham, “What’s maximum for a K-13 lifecraft?”
“About twenty thousand space knots.”
Jill bit her underlip. She said, “What will happen if he doesn’t throw that switch? Will he crash?”
Bill shook his head, bitterly. “If he hits the world, which is unlikely without us to bring him in, he’ll burn up in the atmosphere. At least that would be quick, probably less than a minute. If he misses the world, he’ll go on past and eventually be swallowed up in the sun. But their food and oxygen probably wouldn’t last that long.”
Mark Ellington went by. He called