Rick had to grin. He was flying automatically, as he flew his own Sky Wagon. But Lipton was right. This was a jet, not a low-powered sports plane. Suddenly exuberant he cracked the throttle and stood the jet on its tail. It climbed vertically, an amazing sensation for Rick. Power to burn!

The altimeter read ten thousand feet. He asked, "Can I sort of toss it around a little?"

Lipton chuckled. "You're flying, and I have a strong stomach."

Rick kicked the plane over and let it drop, saw the Nevada mountains rushing up to meet him. He leveled off and pulled into a tight turn, much as he might turn the Sky Wagon. G forces slammed him into the bucket seat and the world went gray as blood drained from his head.

"Let up," Lipton snapped.

Rick corrected groggily. Wow! He had forgotten that power had its limitations, too. A tight turn meant pulling too many G's--too many times the force of gravity--for safety. "Sorry," he said huskily.

"It's all right. Feel your way."

Rick did so, for an ecstatic ten minutes, then, realizing that time was moving and he was burning fuel at a terrific rate, he asked reluctantly, "What now, sir?"

"Let's go home," Lipton said calmly.

Landing was the tricky part. He hurriedly read through the landing checkoff list, then started in. Flaps, throttle setting. Then, wheels down and locked. Air speed correct.

"Better keep flying speed," he thought grimly. "This bucket has the gliding angle of a brick."

For a moment habit almost fouled him up again, as he waited for the plane to "sell out," then he remembered that he had to fly it in. With an anxious eye on his air-speed indicator he gave it a little more throttle, then felt the struts compress as the wheels. .h.i.t. He chopped the throttle and tried out the brakes with tender care. He didn't intend to flip them over through carelessness now. Gradually he brought the jet to a halt, reset flaps, and then rolled the plane back to their starting point. After he had killed the engine he just sat there, too limp to move. Then, slowly, and with vast relief, he started to get up.

Jerry Lipton, who had climbed out on the wing, reached over and put a hand on his shoulder. "Where are you going?"

Rick looked up in surprise. "I was getting out, sir."

"Stay put. I'm getting out. You're going for another ride."

He asked weakly, "Right now, sir?"

"No time like the present," Lipton said. He grinned. "How did you like it?"

Rick returned the grin. "I guess you know the answer to that."

"I guess I do. It was a good flight, Rick. You only let your normal habits get in the way twice, and you corrected fast both times. Keep your helmet on now. I'll be talking to you from the blockhouse in five minutes."

It was less than that. Apparently d.i.c.k Earle and the staff had the control circuits warmed and ready.

Lipton's voice came through the phones. "Visual take-off, Rick. The radar will pick you up at five hundred feet. I may overcontrol a little until I'm used to the equipment, but don't let it bother you. Do not take control yourself unless I give the word. There is one exception. If we lose communication in anyway, take over at once and bring it in. Now, repeat back."

"I will not take over controls, except on order from you. If communications fail, I will a.s.sume control at once and land the plane."

"Correct. Now, switch on. Start 'er up."

Rick did so.

"Release all controls and sit back. I am now controlling."

"Roger. Controls are all yours."

Servomotors held the brakes and advanced the throttle. The plane turned and taxied to the end of the runway. Rick sat there, trying not to feel uneasy. Just the same, it was weird to realize that Jerry was handling the plane from within the blockhouse.

"Take off. Here goes."

The roar increased and the plane picked up speed. Rick marveled as it lifted smoothly and the wheels retracted. Then, almost before he realized it, the plane had climbed and the earphones emitted, "I have lost visual contact. You are now under control by radarscope."

The jet climbed rapidly, then started through a series of maneuvers.

Rick began to enjoy it. But the flight was almost over. "I'm bringing you in," the pilot said.

The plane turned, leveled, and the throttle was r.e.t.a.r.ded. The nose dropped, in perfect alignment with the runway.

"You're off the scope and I have you on visual contact. Have faith, boy.

You're almost home."

Rick braced himself and waited for the shock of landing. There was none.

The jet skimmed along the runway, touched wheels, and settled so smoothly he couldn't have said exactly when the plane touched down.

Lipton, Earle, and the staff came hurrying from the blockhouse. Rick climbed down, pulling the helmet off hair that was swimming-wet with perspiration.

Now the brains for winged horse had been tried and proved. Rick looked at the great rocket, almost hidden by the crane and its equipment. Soon, he thought. Soon Pegasus would make the payoff flight!

CHAPTER XV

The Open Hatchway

Pegasus was ready.

The dry run was over and only the final checkout remained.

At zero minus sixteen hours Rick stood at the base of the huge rocket and looked up, studying every inch of it. He knew he would never have the opportunity again.

About fifty feet up he could make out the smooth, stainless-steel connecting ring where the second stage joined the first. Explosive bolts, set off by one of the electronic circuits, would blow the stages apart. The second stage, still carrying the final stage, would accelerate away on its own motors until they, too, had consumed all available fuel. Again, explosive bolts would destroy the connection and the final stage would be on its own. The motors would flare briefly, providing less than a minute's acceleration, then the final stage would coast on its momentum to maximum alt.i.tude nearly three hundred miles above the earth.

Not until the final stage started its downward plunge would Jerry Lipton take over. His job, then, would be to control the plunging flight, to use up the excess of energy by maneuvering the rocket into the atmosphere and out, to prevent its burning up like a meteor. In slow, careful stages, he would let it come lower and lower, until most of its energy was used up. Then he would try to land it. The landing speed would be terrific--nearly a thousand miles an hour.

Gee-Gee Gould came up and stood beside him. "It's a beautiful thing, Rick. And it's ours. Yours, mine, d.i.c.k's, Frank's, Charlie's--it belongs to every one of the crew."

Rick knew. It was _his_ rocket. If it worked, it would be because of the care and devotion with which he had done his job. He knew others felt the same, and they were equally right. All of them had built part of themselves into Pegasus.

If it worked . . . Of course it would work! He sought rea.s.surance from Gee-Gee.

"It's going to be okay, isn't it?"