The Sentinel Part 14

He had three days to burn, since it was not the captain's job to supervise the loading of the s.h.i.+p or the preflight maintenance. Saunders knew skippers who hung around breathing heavily on the necks of the servicing engineers, but he wasn't that type. Besides, he wanted to see London. He had been to Mars and Venus and the moon, but this was his first visit to England. Mitch.e.l.l and Chambers filled him with useful information and put him on the monorail to London before das.h.i.+ng off to see their own families. They would be returning to the s.p.a.ceport a day before he did, to see that everything was in order. It was a great relief having officers one could rely on so implicitly: they were unimaginative and cautious, but thoroughgoing almost to a fault. If they they said that everything was s.h.i.+pshape, Saunders knew he could take off without qualms. said that everything was s.h.i.+pshape, Saunders knew he could take off without qualms.

The sleek, streamlined cylinder whistled across the carefully tailored landscape. It was so close to the ground, and traveling so swiftly, that one could only gather fleeting impressions of the towns and fields that flashed by. Everything, thought Saunders, was so incredibly compact, and on such a Lilliputian scale. There were no open s.p.a.ces, no fields more than a mile long in any direction. It was enough to give a Texan claustrophobia-particularly a Texan who also happened to be a s.p.a.ce pilot.

The sharply defined edge of London appeared like the bulwark of some walled city on the horizon. With few exceptions, the buildings were quite low-perhaps fifteen or twenty stories in height. The monorail shot through a narrow canyon, over a very attractive park, across a river that was presumably the Thames, and then came to rest with a steady, powerful surge of deceleration. A loud-speaker announced, in a modest voice that seemed afraid of being overheard: "This is Paddington. Pa.s.sengers for the North please remain seated." Saunders pulled his baggage down from the rack and headed out into the station.

As he made for the entrance to the Underground, he pa.s.sed a bookstall and glanced at the magazines on display. About half of them, it seemed, carried photographs of Prince Henry or other members of the royal family. This, thought Saunders, was altogether too much of a good thing. He also noticed that all the evening papers showed the prince entering or leaving the Centaurus Centaurus, and bought copies to read in the subway-he begged its pardon, the "Tube."

The editorial comments had a monotonous similarity. At last, they rejoiced, England need no longer take a back seat among the s.p.a.ce-going nations. Now it was possible to operate a s.p.a.ce fleet without having a million square miles of desert: the silent, gravity-defying s.h.i.+ps of today could land, if need be, in Hyde Park, without even disturbing the ducks on the Serpentine. Saunders found it odd that this sort of patriotism had managed to survive into the age of s.p.a.ce, but he guessed that the British had felt it pretty badly when they'd had to borrow launching sites from the Australians, the Americans, and the Russians.

The London Underground was still, after a century and a half, the best transport system in the world, and it deposited Saunders safely at his destination less than ten minutes after he had left Paddington. In ten minutes the Centaurus Centaurus could have covered fifty thousand miles; but s.p.a.ce, after all, was not quite so crowded as this. Nor were the orbits of s.p.a.ce craft so tortuous as the streets Saunders had to negotiate to reach his hotel. All attempts to straighten out London had failed dismally, and it was fifteen minutes before he completed the last hundred yards of his journey. could have covered fifty thousand miles; but s.p.a.ce, after all, was not quite so crowded as this. Nor were the orbits of s.p.a.ce craft so tortuous as the streets Saunders had to negotiate to reach his hotel. All attempts to straighten out London had failed dismally, and it was fifteen minutes before he completed the last hundred yards of his journey.

He stripped off his jacket and collapsed thankfully on his bed. Three quiet, carefree days all to himself: it seemed too good to be true.

It was. He had barely taken a deep breath when the phone rang.

"Captain Saunders? I'm so glad we found you. This is the BBC. We have a program called 'In Town Tonight' and we were wondering..."

The thud of the air-lock door was the sweetest sound Saunders had heard for days. Now he was safe; n.o.body could get at him here in his armored fortress, which would soon be far out in the freedom of s.p.a.ce. It was not that he had been treated badly: on the contrary, he had been treated altogether too well. He had made four (or was it five?) appearances on various TV programs; he had been to more parties than he could remember; he had acquired several hundred new friends and (the way his head felt now) forgotten all his old ones.

"Who started the rumor," he said to Mitch.e.l.l as they met at the port, "that the British were reserved and standoffish? Heaven help me if I ever meet a demonstrative demonstrative Englishman." Englishman."

"I take it," replied Mitch.e.l.l, "that you had a good time."

"Ask me tomorrow," Saunders replied. "I may have reintegrated my psyche by then."

"I saw you on that quiz program last night," remarked Chambers. "You looked pretty ghastly."

"Thank you: that's just the sort of sympathetic encouragement I need at the moment. I'd like to see you think of a synonym for 'jejune' after you'd been up until three in the morning."

"Vapid," replied Chambers promptly.

"Insipid," said Mitch.e.l.l, not to be outdone.

"You win. Let's have those overhaul schedules and see what the engineers have been up to."

Once seated at the control desk, Captain Saunders quickly became his usual efficient self. He was home again, and his training took over. He knew exactly what to do, and would do it with automatic precision. To right and left of him, Mitch.e.l.l and Chambers were checking their instruments and calling the control tower.

It took them an hour to carry out the elaborate preflight routine. When the last signature had been attached to the last sheet of instructions, and the last red light on the monitor panel had turned to green, Saunders flopped back in his seat and lit a cigarette. They had ten minutes to spare before take-off.

"One day," he said, "I'm going to come to England incognito to find what makes the place tick. I don't understand how you can crowd so many people onto one little island without it sinking."

"Huh," snorted Chambers. "You should see Holland. That makes England look as wide open as Texas."

"And then there's this royal family business. Do you know, wherever I went everybody kept asking me how I got on with Prince Henry-what we'd talked about-didn't I think he was a fine guy, and so on. Frankly, I got fed up with it. I can't imagine how you've managed to stand it for a thousand years."

"Don't think that the royal family's been popular all the time," replied Mitch.e.l.l. "Remember what happened to Charles the First? And some of the things we said about the early Georges were quite as rude as the remarks your people made later."

"We just happen to like tradition," said Chambers. "We're not afraid to change when the time comes, but as far as the royal family is concerned-well, it's unique and we're rather fond of it. Just the way you feel about the Statue of Liberty."

"Not a fair example. I don't think it's right to put human beings up on a pedestal and treat them as if they're-well, minor deities. Look at Prince Henry, for instance. Do you think he'll ever have a chance of doing the things he really wants to do? I saw him three times on TV when I was in London. The first time he was opening a new school somewhere; then he was giving a speech to the Wors.h.i.+pful Company of Fishmongers at the Guildhall (I swear I'm not making that that up), and finally he was receiving an address of welcome from the mayor of Podunk, or whatever your equivalent is." ("Wigan," interjected Mitch.e.l.l.) "I think I'd rather be in jail than live that sort of life. Why can't you leave the poor guy alone?" up), and finally he was receiving an address of welcome from the mayor of Podunk, or whatever your equivalent is." ("Wigan," interjected Mitch.e.l.l.) "I think I'd rather be in jail than live that sort of life. Why can't you leave the poor guy alone?"

For once, neither Mitch.e.l.l nor Chambers rose to the challenge. Indeed, they maintained a somewhat frigid silence. That's torn it, thought Saunders. I should have kept my big mouth shut; now I've hurt their feelings. I should have remembered that advice I read somewhere: "The British have two religions-cricket and the royal family. Never attempt to criticize either."

The awkward pause was broken by the radio and the voice of the s.p.a.ceport controller.

"Control to Centaurus Centaurus. Your flight lane clear. O.K. to lift."

"Take-off program starting-now!" replied Saunders, throwing the master switch. Then he leaned back, his eyes taking in the entire control panel, his hands clear of the board but ready for instant action.

He was tense but completely confident. Better brains than his-brains of metal and crystal and flas.h.i.+ng electron streams-were in charge of the Centaurus Centaurus now. If necessary, he could take command, but he had never yet lifted a s.h.i.+p manually and never expected to do so. If the automatics failed, he would cancel the take-off and sit here on Earth until the fault had been cleared up. now. If necessary, he could take command, but he had never yet lifted a s.h.i.+p manually and never expected to do so. If the automatics failed, he would cancel the take-off and sit here on Earth until the fault had been cleared up.

The main field went on, and weight ebbed from the Centaurus Centaurus. There were protesting groans from the s.h.i.+p's hull and structure as the strains redistributed themselves. The curved arms of the landing cradle were carrying no load now; the slightest breath of wind would carry the freighter away into the sky.

Control called from the tower: "Your weight now zero: check calibration."

Saunders looked at his meters. The upthrust of the field would now exactly equal the weight of the s.h.i.+p, and the meter readings should agree with the totals on the loading schedules. In at least one instance this check had revealed the presence of a stowaway on board a s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p-the gauges were as sensitive as that.

"One million, five hundred and sixty thousand, four hundred and twenty kilograms," Saunders read off from the thrust indicators. "Pretty good-it checks to within fifteen kilos. The first time I've been underweight, though. You could have taken on some more candy for that plump girl friend of yours in Port Lowell, Mitch."

The a.s.sistant pilot gave a rather sickly grin. He had never quite lived down a blind date on Mars which had given him a completely unwarranted reputation for preferring statuesque blondes.

There was no sense of motion, but the Centaurus Centaurus was now falling up into the summer sky as her weight was not only neutralized but reversed. To the watchers below, she would be a swiftly mounting star, a silver globule climbing through and beyond the clouds. Around her, the blue of the atmosphere was deepening into the eternal darkness of s.p.a.ce. Like a bead moving along an invisible wire, the freighter was following the pattern of radio waves that would lead her from world to world. was now falling up into the summer sky as her weight was not only neutralized but reversed. To the watchers below, she would be a swiftly mounting star, a silver globule climbing through and beyond the clouds. Around her, the blue of the atmosphere was deepening into the eternal darkness of s.p.a.ce. Like a bead moving along an invisible wire, the freighter was following the pattern of radio waves that would lead her from world to world.

This, thought Captain Saunders, was his twenty-sixth take-off from Earth. But the wonder would never die, nor would he ever outgrow the feeling of power it gave him to sit here at the control panel, the master of forces beyond even the dreams of mankind's ancient G.o.ds. No two departures were ever the same; some were into the dawn, some toward the sunset, some above a cloud-veiled Earth, some through clear and sparkling skies. s.p.a.ce itself might be unchanging, but on Earth the same pattern never recurred, and no man ever looked twice at the same landscape or the same sky. Down there the Atlantic waves were marching eternally toward Europe, and high above them-but so far below the Centaurus! Centaurus!-the glittering bands of cloud were advancing before the same winds. England began to merge into the continent, and the European coast line became foreshortened and misty as it sank hull down beyond the curve of the world. At the frontier of the west, a fugitive stain on the horizon was the first hint of America. With a single glance, Captain Saunders could span all the leagues across which Columbus had labored half a thousand years ago.

With the silence of limitless power, the s.h.i.+p shook itself free from the last bonds of Earth. To an outside observer, the only sign of the energies it was expending would have been the dull red glow from the radiation fins around the vessel's equator, as the heat loss from the ma.s.s-converters was dissipated into s.p.a.ce.

"14:03:45," wrote Captain Saunders neatly in the log. "Escape velocity attained. Course deviation negligible."

There was little point in making the entry. The modest 25,000 miles an hour that had been the most unattainable goal of the first astronauts had no practical significance now, since the Centaurus Centaurus was still accelerating and would continue to gain speed for hours. But it had a profound psychological meaning. Until this moment, if power had failed, they would have fallen back to Earth. But now gravity could never recapture them: they had achieved the freedom of s.p.a.ce, and could take their pick of the planets. In practice, of course, there would be several kinds of h.e.l.l to pay if they did not pick Mars and deliver their cargo according to plan. But Captain Saunders, like all s.p.a.cemen, was fundamentally a romantic. Even on a milk run like this he would sometimes dream of the ringed glory of Saturn or the somber Neptunian wastes, lit by the distant fires of the shrunken sun. was still accelerating and would continue to gain speed for hours. But it had a profound psychological meaning. Until this moment, if power had failed, they would have fallen back to Earth. But now gravity could never recapture them: they had achieved the freedom of s.p.a.ce, and could take their pick of the planets. In practice, of course, there would be several kinds of h.e.l.l to pay if they did not pick Mars and deliver their cargo according to plan. But Captain Saunders, like all s.p.a.cemen, was fundamentally a romantic. Even on a milk run like this he would sometimes dream of the ringed glory of Saturn or the somber Neptunian wastes, lit by the distant fires of the shrunken sun.

An hour after take-off, according to the hallowed ritual, Chambers left the course computer to its own devices and produced the three gla.s.ses that lived beneath the chart table. As he drank the traditional toast to Newton, Oberth, and Einstein, Saunders wondered how this little ceremony had originated. s.p.a.ce crews had certainly been doing it for at least sixty years: perhaps it could be traced back to the legendary rocket engineer who made the remark, "I've burned more alcohol in sixty seconds than you've ever sold across this lousy bar."

Two hours later, the last course correction that the tracking stations on Earth could give them had been fed into the computer. From now on, until Mars came sweeping up ahead, they were on their own. It was a lonely thought, yet a curiously exhilarating one. Saunders savored it in his mind. There were just the three of them here-and no one else within a million miles.

In the circ.u.mstances, the detonation of an atomic bomb could hardly have been more shattering than the modest knock on the cabin door...

Captain Saunders had never been so startled in his life. With a yelp that had already left him before he had a chance to suppress it, he shot out of his seat and rose a full yard before the s.h.i.+p's residual gravity field dragged him back. Chambers and Mitch.e.l.l, on the other hand, behaved with traditional British phlegm. They swiveled in their bucket seats, stared at the door, and then waited for their captain to take action.

It took Saunders several seconds to recover. Had he been confronted with what might be called a normal emergency, he would already have been halfway into a s.p.a.ce-suit. But a diffident knock on the door of the control cabin, when everybody else in the s.h.i.+p was sitting beside him, was not a fair test.

A stowaway was simply impossible. The danger had been so obvious, right from the beginning of commercial s.p.a.ce flight, that the most stringent precautions had been taken against it. One of his officers, Saunders knew, would always have been on duty during loading; no one could possibly have crept in un.o.bserved. Then there had been the detailed preflight inspection, carried out by both Mitch.e.l.l and Chambers. Finally, there was the weight check at the moment before take-off; that that was conclusive. No, a stowaway was totally... was conclusive. No, a stowaway was totally...

The knock on the door sounded again. Captain Saunders clenched his fists and squared his jaw. In a few minutes, he thought, some romantic idiot was going to be very, very sorry.

"Open the door, Mr. Mitch.e.l.l," Saunders growled. In a single long stride, the a.s.sistant pilot crossed the cabin and jerked open the hatch.

For an age, it seemed, no one spoke. Then the stowaway, wavering slightly in the low gravity, came into the cabin. He was completely self-possessed, and looked very pleased with himself.

"Good afternoon, Captain Saunders," he said, "I must apologize for this sudden intrusion."

Saunders swallowed hard. Then, as the pieces of the jigsaw fell into place, he looked first at Mitch.e.l.l, then at Chambers. Both of his officers stared guilelessly back at him with expressions of ineffable innocence. "So that's that's it," he said bitterly. There was no need for any explanations: everything was perfectly clear. It was easy to picture the complicated negotiations, the midnight meetings, the falsification of records, the off-loading of nonessential cargoes that his trusted colleagues had been conducting behind his back. He was sure it was a most interesting story, but he didn't want to hear about it now. He was too busy wondering what the it," he said bitterly. There was no need for any explanations: everything was perfectly clear. It was easy to picture the complicated negotiations, the midnight meetings, the falsification of records, the off-loading of nonessential cargoes that his trusted colleagues had been conducting behind his back. He was sure it was a most interesting story, but he didn't want to hear about it now. He was too busy wondering what the Manual of s.p.a.ce Law Manual of s.p.a.ce Law would have to say about a situation like this, though he was already gloomily certain that it would be of no use to him at all. would have to say about a situation like this, though he was already gloomily certain that it would be of no use to him at all.

It was too late to turn back, of course: the conspirators wouldn't have made an elementary miscalculation like that. He would just have to make the best of what looked to be the trickiest voyage in his career.

He was still trying to think of something to say when the PRIORITY signal started flas.h.i.+ng on the radio board. The stowaway looked at his watch.

"I was expecting that," he said. "It's probably the Prime Minister. I think I'd better speak to the poor man."

Saunders thought so too.

"Very well, Your Royal Highness," he said sulkily, and with such emphasis that the t.i.tle sounded almost like an insult. Then, feeling much put upon, he retired into a corner.

It was the Prime Minister all right, and he sounded very upset. Several times he used the phrase "your duty to your people" and once there was a distinct catch in his throat as he said something about "devotion of your subjects to the Crown." Saunders realized, with some surprise, that he really meant it.

While this emotional harangue was in progress, Mitch.e.l.l leaned over to Saunders and whispered in his ear: "The old boy's on a sticky wicket, and he knows it. The people will be behind the prince when they hear what's happened. Everybody knows he's been trying to get into s.p.a.ce for years."

"I wish he hadn't chosen my my s.h.i.+p," said Saunders. "And I'm not sure that this doesn't count as mutiny." s.h.i.+p," said Saunders. "And I'm not sure that this doesn't count as mutiny."

"The heck it does. Mark my words-when this is all over you'll be the only Texan to have the Order of the Garter. Won't that be nice for you?"

"Shus.h.!.+" said Chambers. The prince was speaking, his words winging back across the abyss that now sundered him from the island he would one day rule.

"I am sorry, Mr. Prime Minister," he said, "if I've caused you any alarm. I will return as soon as it is convenient. Someone has to do everything for the first time, and I felt the moment had come for a member of my family to leave Earth. It will be a valuable part of my education, and will make me more fitted to carry out my duty. Goodbye."

He dropped the microphone and walked over to the observation window-the only s.p.a.ceward-looking port on the entire s.h.i.+p. Saunders watched him standing there, proud and lonely-but contented now. And as he saw the prince staring out at the stars which he had at last attained, all his annoyance and indignation slowly evaporated.

No one spoke for a long time. Then Prince Henry tore his gaze away from the blinding splendor beyond the port, looked at Captain Saunders, and smiled.

"Where's the galley, Captain?" he asked. "I may be out of practice, but when I used to go scouting I was the best cook in my patrol."

Saunders slowly relaxed, then smiled back. The tension seemed to lift from the control room. Mars was still a long way off, but he knew now that this wasn't going to be such a bad trip after all...

THE WIND.

FROM THE SUN.

"The Wind From the Sun" was written just twenty years ago, but is far more topical now than it was in 1963. I have in front of me at the moment a folder full of technical papers a.s.sembled by the World s.p.a.ce Foundation in support of its Solar Sail Project-conducted in cooperation with the University of Utah, the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, and the Radio Amateur Satellite Corporation, with the a.s.sistance of the Charles A. Lindbergh Fund.

Let me quote from the Foundation's leaflet, so that you will better appreciate the background of the story that follows: "In 1924, Fridrikh Tsander, perhaps as a result of suggestion by Konstantin Tsiolkovsky, noted that in the vacuum of s.p.a.ce, a large thin sheet of reflective material illuminated by the Sun and controlled in orientation could be used as a propulsion device requiring no propellant. This propulsion device is now called a solar sail. In 1973, NASA sponsored a design study which led to a full-scale evaluation of solar sailing for the proposed Halley's Comet rendezvous mission. Plans for this mission were suspended in 1977, but not before solar sailing had received a thorough technical review confirming its feasibility and unique advantages."

The World s.p.a.ce Foundation hopes to launch a small solar-sailer, either from the U.S. Shuttle or the European s.p.a.ce a.s.sociation "Ariane" rocket, in connection with Vancouver's EXPO '86. Anyone wis.h.i.+ng to support this project can contact the WSF at P.O. Box Y, South Pasadena, Calif. 91030.

There is also an enthusiastic French group (U3P-Union pour la Promotion de la Promotion Photonique, 6 rue des Ramparts Coligny, Venerque 31120, Portet-sur-Garonne) planning a solar race around the Moon, hopefully by 19856. (Unmanned, of course-again the ESA Ariane would be used as a launcher.) And a few months ago I received a fascinating letter from Dr. V. Beletsky, of the Keldysh Inst.i.tute of Applied Mathematics, Moscow, enclosing his book Essays on the Motions of s.p.a.ce Bodies. One whole chapter is devoted to an a.n.a.lysis of "The Wind From the Sun," with a detailed integration of the trajectories of "Diana" and "Sunbeam." To my pleased surprise, Dr. Beletsky wrote: "The data mentioned in your story has proved to be quite sufficient to integrate the differential equations of yacht motions. Integration results almost completely agree with situation in your story!! Have you also integrated the equations of yachts' motions? If not, why such close agreement of such un.o.bvious details. If yes, why is such important characteristic as the total flight time not in agreement?-2 days in your story and 5 in mine...."

I had to confess that any agreement must have been more luck than integration. Though I had done some back-of-the-envelope calculations to make sure that the velocities and accelerations were not ridiculous, I had certainly not computed the orbit in any detail.

Incidentally, the story's original t.i.tle, under which it first appeared in Boy's Life Boy's Life (March 1964) was the rather obvious "Sunjammer." However, Poul Anderson had the same idea almost simultaneously, so I had to make a quick change of name.... (March 1964) was the rather obvious "Sunjammer." However, Poul Anderson had the same idea almost simultaneously, so I had to make a quick change of name....

THE ENORMOUS DISC OF SAIL strained at its rigging, already filled with the wind that blew between the worlds. In three minutes the race would begin, yet now John Merton felt more relaxed, more at peace, than at any time for the past year. Whatever happened when the Commodore gave the starting signal, whether strained at its rigging, already filled with the wind that blew between the worlds. In three minutes the race would begin, yet now John Merton felt more relaxed, more at peace, than at any time for the past year. Whatever happened when the Commodore gave the starting signal, whether Diana Diana carried him to victory or defeat, he had achieved his ambition. After a lifetime spent designing s.h.i.+ps for others, now he would sail his own. carried him to victory or defeat, he had achieved his ambition. After a lifetime spent designing s.h.i.+ps for others, now he would sail his own.

"T minus two minutes," said the cabin radio. "Please confirm your readiness."

One by one, the other skippers answered. Merton recognized all the voices-some tense, some calm-for they were the voices of his friends and rivals. On the four inhabited worlds, there were scarcely twenty men who could sail a sun yacht; and they were all there, on the starting line or aboard the escort vessels, orbiting twenty-two thousand miles above the equator.

"Number One-Gossamer-ready to go."

"Number Two-Santa Maria-all O.K."

"Number Three-Sunbeam-O.K."

"Number Four-Woomera-all systems GO GO."

Merton smiled at that last echo from the early, primitive days of astronautics. But it had become part of the tradition of s.p.a.ce; and there were times when a man needed to evoke the shades of those who had gone before him to the stars.

"Number Five-Lebedev-we're ready."

"Number Six-Arachne-O.K."

Now it was his turn, at the end of the line; strange to think that the words he was speaking in this tiny cabin were being heard by at least five billion people.

"Number Seven-Diana-ready to start."

"One through Seven acknowledged," answered that impersonal voice from the judge's launch. "Now T minus one minute."

Merton scarcely heard it. For the last time, he was checking the tension in the rigging. The needles of all the dynamometers were steady; the immense sail was taut, its mirror surface sparkling and glittering gloriously in the sun.

To Merton, floating weightless at the periscope, it seemed to fill the sky. As well it might-for out there were fifty million square feet of sail, linked to his capsule by almost a hundred miles of rigging. All the canvas of all the tea clippers that had once raced like clouds across the China seas, sewn into one gigantic sheet, could not match the single sail that Diana Diana had spread beneath the sun. Yet it was little more substantial than a soap bubble; that two square miles of aluminized plastic was only a few millionths of an inch thick. had spread beneath the sun. Yet it was little more substantial than a soap bubble; that two square miles of aluminized plastic was only a few millionths of an inch thick.

"T minus ten seconds. All recording cameras ON ON."

Something so huge, yet so frail, was hard for the mind to grasp. And it was harder still to realize that this fragile mirror could tow him free of Earth merely by the power of the sunlight it would trap.

"...five, four, three, two, one, CUT CUT!"

Seven knife blades sliced through seven thin lines tethering the yachts to the mother s.h.i.+ps that had a.s.sembled and serviced them. Until this moment, all had been circling Earth together in a rigidly held formation, but now the yachts would begin to disperse, like dandelion seeds drifting before the breeze. And the winner would be the one that first drifted past the Moon.

Aboard Diana Diana, nothing seemed to be happening. But Merton knew better. Though his body could feel no thrust, the instrument board told him that he was now accelerating at almost one thousandth of a gravity. For a rocket, that figure would have been ludicrous-but this was the first time any solar yacht had ever attained it. Diana Diana's design was sound; the vast sail was living up to his calculations. At this rate, two circuits of the Earth would build up his speed to escape velocity, and then he could head out for the Moon, with the full force of the Sun behind him.