Astronomers could
detect the spot from which the picture had been taken. But to fake a
single print would have required years of computation and almost
certainly there would have been slip-ups somewhere. These pictures were
unassailable evidence that a human expedition had reached a point in
space that had been beyond all human dreaming.
Then Cochrane had nothing to do. He was a supernumerary member of the
crew. The pilot and Jones were in charge of the ship. Jamison would take
care of the catering, when meal-time came. Probably Alicia Keith--no,
Alicia Simms--would help. Nothing else needed attention. The rockets
either worked or they didn't. The air-apparatus needed no supervision.
Cochrane found himself without a function.
He went restlessly back to the control-room. He found Babs looking
helpless, and Jones staring blankly at a slip of paper in his hands,
while the pilot was still at a blister-port, staring at the stars
through one of those squat, thick telescopes used on Luna for the
examination of the planets.
"How goes the research?" asked Cochrane.
"We're stumped," said Jones painfully. "I forgot something.
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