240,000 MILES STRAIGHT UP
A NOVELET BY
L. RON HUBBARD
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Thrilling Wonder Stories December 1948.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
CHAPTER I
Left at the Post
The party was wild. The night was gay. And the "Angel" was very, verydrunk.
But who wouldn't have got drunk on such an occasion? The Angel wasabout to head man's first attempt to conquer space and within a fewshort hours he would be boring space to the Moon, 240,000 milesstraight up.
He had tried to stay sober but this, being without precedent in theAngel's career, was entirely too great a strain. "Don't dare takeanother grink—well—jush one more—hic!"
The Angel was First Lieutenant Cannon Gray of the United States ArmyAir Forces, Engineers. He was five feet two inches tall and he hadgolden curly hair and a face like a choir boy. Old ladies thought himwonderful and beautiful. His superiors, from the moment he had enteredWest Point, had found him just about the wickedest, hard drinkingest,go-to-hell splinter of steel they'd ever tried to forge.
The army, with a taste of opposites, called him Angel from the first,called it to his face, loved him and was hilarious over his escapades.
This was probably the first time in history that Angel had attempted tostay sober. But it was a wonderful party they were giving in his honor(two floors of the Waldorf plus the ballroom) and people keptinsisting that he wouldn't get another chance at a drink for months andmaybe never and everyone was so pleasant that good resolutions werevery hard to hold—especially for a dashing young officer who had nevertried to make any before.
The occasion was gala and his hand was sore from being pumped bybrasshats and newsmen and senators. For at zero four zero eight of thedawning, First Lieutenant Cannon Gray, U.S.A., was taking off for theMoon.
It was in all the papers.
Several times Colonel Anthony, a veritable old maid of a flightsurgeon, had tried to pry his charge loose and steer him to bed and,while Angel seemed willing and looked blue eyed and agreeable, healways vanished before the hall was reached. Really, it was not Angel'sfault.
No less than nineteen frail, charming and truly startling young ladies,all professing undying passion and future faithfulness, had turnedup one after the other and it was something of a task making eachone unaware of the other eighteen and confirmed in her belief in hislasting fidelity.
Such strains should not be placed upon young men about to fly twohundred and forty thousand miles straight up. And it takes hours to saya proper good-by. And it takes more hours to be respectful to brass.And it takes time, time, time to drink up all the toasts shoved at one.All in all it was a very exhausting evening.
Not until zero one zero six did Colonel Anthony manage to catchthe collapsing Angel in such a way as to keep him. Wrapped in themassive grip of Colonel Anthony, Angel said, "Candrin four oheigh—snore!"
The golden head dropped on the Colonel's eagle and Angel slept.
Cruelly, it was no time at all before somebody was slapping Angel awakeagain, standing him on his feet, getting him into a uniform, wrappinghim up in furs, weighing him down with equipment and generally tanglingup a dark, dismal and thoroughly confused morning.
Angel was aware of a howling headache. Small scarlet fiends, especiallycommissioned by the Prince of Darkness for the purpose, played a gaychorus with red hot hammers just behind