assume it obeys the laws of space until we know different." He switched to Paul. "What were you saying about star photos?"
Paul began to tell them.
Margo hadn't followed Paul onto the platform. People were pushing and jabbering around, her, two women were kneeling by the Ramrod and rubbing his wrists, the Little Man was hunting behind chairs for something, but Margo was staring across the dun sand at the eerie amethyst and topaz wake of the Wanderer in the waters of the Pacific.
The fancy came to her that all the ghosts in her past, or perhaps it was the world's past, were going to come marching toward her along that jeweled highway.
The She-Turban's face came in the way and said to her accusingly, "I know you—you're the girl friend of that spaceman. I saw your picture in Life."
"You're right, Rama Joan," a woman in a pale gray sweater and slacks said to the She-Turban. "I must have seen the same picture."
"She came with a man," Ann volunteered from her Rama Joan's side. "But they're nice people; they brought a cat. See how it stares at the big velvet saucer, Mommy?"
"Yes, dear." Rama Joan agreed, smiling twistedly. "It's seeing devils. Cats like them."
"Please don't try to scare us any more than we are," Margo said sharply. "It's stupid and childish."
"Oh, you think there won't be devils?" Rama Joan asked, quite conversationally.
"Don't worry about Ann. She loves everything."
Ragnarok, slinking by, reared at Miaow with a snarl. The Little Man, still feeling under chairs, snapped out: "Down, sir!" Margo fought to hold on to the cat and minimize scratches. Rama Joan turned her back and looked up at the Wanderer and then at the moon emerging from eclipse. The Little Man found what he'd been hunting for and he sat down and settled it on his knees—something the size of a briefcase but with sharper edges.
On the platform Doc was saying to Paul: "Well, yes, those photos sound pretty suggestive of emergences from hyperspace, but—" His thick glasses magnified his frown. "I don't see how they're going to solve any problems here and now. Especially the one of how far away the damn thing is." The frown deepened.
Hunter said loudly to Doc: "Rudolf! Listen to me!"
Doc grabbed up a furled umbrella, saying: "Sorry, Ross I've got to do something else," and jumped rather clumsily off the platform into the sand.
Paul realized what the strange energy flooding him was, because he could see now that it possessed everyone else: plain exhilaration.
"But this is important," Hunter went on, loudly speaking half to Paul and half past Paul down to Doc kneeling in the sand. "If that thing's just a hundred miles up, it's in Earth's shadow and can't be reflecting sunlight So suppose we figure it's just ten miles up. That's altitude enough for illumination of a wide area. And then it would be just three-tenths of a mile across—only five hundred yards. Rudolf, listen—I know we all laughed at old Charlie Fulby's idea of a fire balloon, but balloons over a hundred yards in diameter have been flown to altitudes of twenty miles and more. If we assume a gigantic balloon carrying inside itself a tremendous light source, which perhaps adds to the lift by heating the balloon's gas…" He broke off. "Rudolf, what the hell are you doing down there?"
Doc had thrust the furled umbrella deep into the sand and was crouched behind it, peering up toward them through the curve of the umbrella's handle. The Wanderer was reflected fantastically in his thick lenses.
"I'm checking that damn thing's orbit," Doc called up. "I'm lining it up with the corner of the big table and this umbrella. Don't anybody move that table!"
"Well, I'm telling you," Hunter called back, "that it may not have an orbit at all, but simply be floating. I'm telling you it may be nothing but a balloon as big as five football fields."
"Ross Hunter!" Rama Joan's voice was ringing and carried the hint of a laugh. The bearded man looked around. So did the others.
"Ross Hunter!"
Paul began to tell them.
Margo hadn't followed Paul onto the platform. People were pushing and jabbering around, her, two women were kneeling by the Ramrod and rubbing his wrists, the Little Man was hunting behind chairs for something, but Margo was staring across the dun sand at the eerie amethyst and topaz wake of the Wanderer in the waters of the Pacific.
The fancy came to her that all the ghosts in her past, or perhaps it was the world's past, were going to come marching toward her along that jeweled highway.
The She-Turban's face came in the way and said to her accusingly, "I know you—you're the girl friend of that spaceman. I saw your picture in Life."
"You're right, Rama Joan," a woman in a pale gray sweater and slacks said to the She-Turban. "I must have seen the same picture."
"She came with a man," Ann volunteered from her Rama Joan's side. "But they're nice people; they brought a cat. See how it stares at the big velvet saucer, Mommy?"
"Yes, dear." Rama Joan agreed, smiling twistedly. "It's seeing devils. Cats like them."
"Please don't try to scare us any more than we are," Margo said sharply. "It's stupid and childish."
"Oh, you think there won't be devils?" Rama Joan asked, quite conversationally.
"Don't worry about Ann. She loves everything."
Ragnarok, slinking by, reared at Miaow with a snarl. The Little Man, still feeling under chairs, snapped out: "Down, sir!" Margo fought to hold on to the cat and minimize scratches. Rama Joan turned her back and looked up at the Wanderer and then at the moon emerging from eclipse. The Little Man found what he'd been hunting for and he sat down and settled it on his knees—something the size of a briefcase but with sharper edges.
On the platform Doc was saying to Paul: "Well, yes, those photos sound pretty suggestive of emergences from hyperspace, but—" His thick glasses magnified his frown. "I don't see how they're going to solve any problems here and now. Especially the one of how far away the damn thing is." The frown deepened.
Hunter said loudly to Doc: "Rudolf! Listen to me!"
Doc grabbed up a furled umbrella, saying: "Sorry, Ross I've got to do something else," and jumped rather clumsily off the platform into the sand.
Paul realized what the strange energy flooding him was, because he could see now that it possessed everyone else: plain exhilaration.
"But this is important," Hunter went on, loudly speaking half to Paul and half past Paul down to Doc kneeling in the sand. "If that thing's just a hundred miles up, it's in Earth's shadow and can't be reflecting sunlight So suppose we figure it's just ten miles up. That's altitude enough for illumination of a wide area. And then it would be just three-tenths of a mile across—only five hundred yards. Rudolf, listen—I know we all laughed at old Charlie Fulby's idea of a fire balloon, but balloons over a hundred yards in diameter have been flown to altitudes of twenty miles and more. If we assume a gigantic balloon carrying inside itself a tremendous light source, which perhaps adds to the lift by heating the balloon's gas…" He broke off. "Rudolf, what the hell are you doing down there?"
Doc had thrust the furled umbrella deep into the sand and was crouched behind it, peering up toward them through the curve of the umbrella's handle. The Wanderer was reflected fantastically in his thick lenses.
"I'm checking that damn thing's orbit," Doc called up. "I'm lining it up with the corner of the big table and this umbrella. Don't anybody move that table!"
"Well, I'm telling you," Hunter called back, "that it may not have an orbit at all, but simply be floating. I'm telling you it may be nothing but a balloon as big as five football fields."
"Ross Hunter!" Rama Joan's voice was ringing and carried the hint of a laugh. The bearded man looked around. So did the others.
"Ross Hunter!"
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