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                             MERCY FLIGHT

                           by MACK REYNOLDS

           _It was a lesson you learned in the Space-Forces,
         and you learned it good: Out in the lonely void, when
           you get in a jam, you're on your own ... it's you
         against everything and everybody. Anything goes...._

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                       Planet Stories July 1951.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


The phone rang and Ed Kerry wasn't doing anything so he picked it up
and said, "Yeah?"

He said yeah a few more times, his eyes widening infinitesimally each
time, and finally wound up with, "Okay, Bunny."

He hung up and said, "That was Bunny, up in Oneonta. She says a guy is
coming in from Luna with a kid for emergency hospitalization, radiation
burns or something."

Jake was sitting back in his swivel chair, his feet on the desk and his
hands clasped behind his head. He growled, "That's the trouble with
women in this game; they've got no story sense. She phones all the way
from Oneonta on a story that's been run a hundred times. Every time
somebody gets good and sick up on Luna they bring 'em to Earth for
treatment." He shrugged. "Okay, so it's a kid this time. Do up about a
stick of it, Kerry, and we'll put it on page three if you can work it
into a tear-jerker."

Ed Kerry said, "You didn't let me finish, Jake. Something's wrong with
this guy's radio."

Somebody on the rewrite desk said, "Something wrong with his radio?
He's gotta have his radio or he can't come in."

Jake took his feet from the desk and sat up. "What'd' ya mean,
something's wrong with his radio?"

"Bunny said he's calling for his landing instructions but they can't
get anything back to him. He's just reached _Brennschluss_ and he's
in free fall now; it'll be four days before he gets here. That's the
way they work it--he's supposed to get in touch with the spaceport he
wants to land at, and...."

"I know how they work it," Jake growled. "See if there's anything on
the last newswire from Luna about him."

       *       *       *       *       *

Phil Mooney flicked his set on again and repeated carefully, "Calling
Oneonta Spaceport. Phil Mooney Outbound Luna, Calling Oneonta
Spaceport. Come in Oneonta."

_Calling Phil Mooney. Calling Phil Mooney. Oneonta Spaceport Calling
Phil Mooney. Come in Mooney._

He cast a quick glance back at the child, strapped carefully in
the metal bunk. She was unconscious now, possibly as a result of
the acceleration in leaving Luna. He'd had to reach a speed of
approximately two miles per second to escape Earth's satellite, and
that had called for more G's acceleration than Lillian's sick body
could bear. His lips thinned back over his teeth; it would be even
worse when they came in for landing and he had to brake against Earth's
gravity.

He switched on the set again to give it another try. Instructions
were to contact the spaceport at which you planned to land as soon
as possible. There was plenty of time, of course, but the sooner the
better.

He said, "Calling Oneonta Spaceport. This is Phil Mooney, Luna, Calling
Oneonta. Come in Oneonta."

_Calling Phil Mooney. Calling Phil Mooney. Oneonta Spaceport Calling
Phil Mooney. Come in Mooney._

       *       *       *       *       *

Ed Kerry came back to the city room with a sheet of yellow paper that
he'd torn off the radiotype.

He said, "Here it is, Jake. This kid--her name is Lillian Marshall--is
the only survivor of an explosion at that nuclear-fission laboratory
they had on the dark side. Her old man and her mother were working
under this Professor Deems; both of them killed."

His eyes went on scanning the story. "Evidently this Phil Mooney runs
an unscheduled spaceline. Anyway, he blasted off to rush the kid to an
earth hospital."

Jake took the dispatch and scowled at it. "Kerry," he growled, "see
what we got on this Phil Mooney in the morgue." He rubbed the end of
his nose thoughtfully. "They'll probably pick him up all right when he
gets nearer."

Somebody on rewrite said, "It doesn't make any difference how far he
is; they should be able to reach him even if he was halfway to Mars.
Something's wrong with his set."

       *       *       *       *       *

He decided to try one of the other spaceports. As a matter of fact,
it made very little difference at which of them he landed. There'd
be suitable hospital facilities within reasonable distance of any
spaceport. He was three days out now, and, according to spaceways
custom, had to let them know he was coming in. It wasn't like landing
an airplane--they want plenty of time to prepare for a spacecraft's
arrival.

He said, "Calling New Albuquerque Spaceport. Calling New Albuquerque
Spaceport. Phil Mooney, Luna, Calling New Albuquerque. Please come in
New Albuquerque."

_Calling Phil Mooney. Calling Phil Mooney. New Albuquerque Spaceport
Calling Phil Mooney. We are receiving you perfectly. Come in Mooney._

He tried once more.

"Calling New Albuquerque Spaceport. Calling New Albuquerque Spaceport.
Please come in New Albuquerque. Emergency. Repeat Emergency. Please
come in New Albuquerque."

_Calling Phil Mooney. Calling Phil Mooney. We are receiving you
perfectly, Mooney. Come in Mooney._

Kitty Kildare took up her notes and prepared to make her way back to
her own tiny office.

"I've got it, Jake," she said breathlessly. Kitty was always breathless
over any story carrying more pathos than a basketball score. "My column
tomorrow'll have them melting. Actually, I mean."

Jake shuddered inwardly after she left.

Ed Kerry came up and drooped on the edge of the desk.

"Here's the dope on this Phil Mooney, Jake," he said. "He's about
thirty. Was in the last war and saw action when we had our space-forces
storming New Petrograd. Did some fighting around the satellites, too.
Piloted a one seater, got a couple of medals, but never really made big
news."

"Got any pix of him?"

Ed Kelly shook his head. "Like I said, he never really made the big
news. Just one more of these young fellas that saw plenty of action and
when the war was over was too keyed up to settle down to everyday life."

Jake picked up the thin folder and riffled through the few clippings
there. "What's he doing now?" he growled.

"Evidently when the war ended he got one of these surplus freighters
and converted it. Name of his company is Mooney Space Service; sounds
impressive, but he's the only one in it. Probably going broke; most
of those guys are--can't make the grade against the competition of
Terra-Luna Spaceways and the other big boys with the scheduled flights."

The city editor scratched the end of his nose speculatively. "Maybe we
ought to have Jim do up an editorial on these unscheduled spacelines.
Something along the line of how heroic some of these guys are; that
sort of stuff. Do up the idea that they're always ready, fair weather
or foul, to make an emergency trip...."

Kerry said, "There isn't any weather, _fair_ or _foul_, in space."

Jake scowled at him. "You know what I mean, wise guy. Meanwhile, get
some statements from some authorities."

Ed Kerry said painfully, "What statements from what authorities?"

The city editor glared at him. "So help me, Ed. I'm going to stick you
on obituaries. _Any_ statements from _any_ authorities. You know damn
well what I mean. Get some doctor to beef about the fact there aren't
suitable hospitalization facilities on Luna. Get some president of one
of these unscheduled spacelines to sound off about what a hero Mooney
is and how much good these unscheduled spacelines are--and that reminds
me of something--"

He yelled to a tall lanky reporter at the far end of the city room:
"Hey, Ted. Get Bunny on the line up in Oneonta and tell her I said to
look up some of these unscheduled spacelines guys and see if she can
get a photograph of Phil Mooney from them. Maybe he's got some buddies
in Oneonta."

       *       *       *       *       *

There was one thing about being in free fall. You had lots of time to
sit and think. Too much time, perhaps.

You had the time to think it _all_ over. And over and over again.

There was the war which had torn you from the routine into which life
had settled, from friends and relations and sweethearts, and thrown you
into a one man space-fighter in which you sometimes stayed for weeks on
end without communication with anyone, friend or foe.

There had probably been no equivalent situation in the history of past
warfare to the one man space-scouts. The nearest thing to them might
have been the flyers of 1914, in the first World War--but, of course,
they were up there alone only for hours at a time, not weeks.

"You develop self-reliance, men," was the way the colonel had put it.
"You develop self-reliance, or you're sunk.

"You're in space by yourself, alone. You can't use your radio or
they can locate you. If something happens, some emergency, or some
contact with the enemy, you're on your own. _You_ have to figure it
out; there's no superior officer to do your thinking; you're the whole
works."

And the colonel had been right, of course. It was a matter of using
your own wits, your own ability. Fighting in a space-scout was the
work of an _individual_, not of a team. Perhaps it would be different
someday in the future when machines and instruments had been developed
further; but now it was an individualistic game, each man for himself.

And probably it was because of this training that he, Phil Mooney,
was unable to get back into the crowd after the war had ended. He was
an individualist who rebelled against working not only _for_ but even
_with_ someone else.

He should have known better. Industry had reached beyond the point
where one man goes out by himself and makes a fortune--or even a
living, he thought wryly. It's the day of the _big_ concerns, of
tremendous trusts and cartels, who didn't even have to bother with the
task of squeezing out tiny competitors like himself. He was out before
he started.

The _Mooney Space Service_. He snorted in self deprecation.

Oh, well.

He pulled himself erect and made his way to the bunk. The kid was
awake. He grinned down at her and said, "How's it going, Lillian?"

Her eyes seemed glazed, even worse than they'd been yesterday, but she
tried to smile back at him. "All right," she whispered, her child's
voice so low he could hardly make it out. "Where's mother...."

Phil Mooney held a finger to his lips. "Maybe you'd better not talk
too much, Lillian. Your mother and father are ... they're all right.
The thing now is to get you to the hospital and make you well again.
Understand?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Kitty Kildare was saying indignantly, "What's this about no insurance
on Luna?"

"Use your head, Kitty," Jake grunted. "What company'd be crazy enough
to insure anybody working on Luna? By the way, that was a good piece on
Mooney and the Marshall kid."

"Did you read it?" Kitty Kildare was pleased.

He shuddered. "No, but the letters have been pouring in. Maybe you
ought to do another. Take it from some other angle this time."

"That's why I wanted to know about the insurance. Do you realize that
this child, this _poor_, sick, defenseless child, is penniless?
Actually, I mean. Bad enough that her parents have left her an orphan,
but, Jake, that child is penniless."

"All right, all right," he told her, "work on that for tomorrow's
column."

Ed came up with another radiotype report, just as Kitty was leaving.
"This guy Mooney's calling all the other spaceports now, Jake.
Evidently he's getting desperate; he's only two days out. And by the
way, here's a new angle. This guy Harry Marshall, the kid's father, was
a war-time buddy of Phil Mooney; they went to cadet school or something
together."

Jake growled thoughtfully, "He hasn't got a chance, but it makes a
tremendous story. Get somebody to rig up a set in the radiotype room,
Ed, and we'll see if we can listen in."

       *       *       *       *       *

There was a desperate, tense, taut inflection in his voice now.

"Calling New Albuquerque Spaceport or Oneonta Spaceport. Phil Mooney
calling _any_ Earth spaceport. Phil Mooney Calling Oneonta, New
Albuquerque, Casablanca, Mukden, _any_ Earth spaceport. Emergency.
Emergency. Request landing instructions. Have Lillian Marshall, eight
years old, needing immediate medical care, aboard. Please come in any
Earth Spaceport."

_Calling Phil Mooney. New Albuquerque calling Phil Mooney. Ambulance
waiting on grounds. Receiving you perfectly. Come in...._

_Calling Phil Mooney. Casablanca Spaceport Calling Phil...._

_Calling Phil Mooney. Mukden Spaceport Calling...._

_Calling Phil Mooney. Oneonta Spaceport Calling Phil Mooney...._

       *       *       *       *       *

Ed Kerry looked up over the set in the radiotype room at the city
editor. He wet his lips carefully and said, "He's only got one day now.
They've got to pick him up in hours or he's sunk."

Jake said, "I never did understand how that works. Why can't he land
himself? I know he can't, but why?"

The reporter shrugged. "I don't quite get it either, but evidently the
whole operation is pretty delicate stuff. They bring him down with
radar, somehow or other. It's not like landing an airplane. Landing a
spacecraft is done from the ground up--not from the spacecraft down.
The pilot has comparatively little to do about it. At least, that's the
way it is with nine ships out of ten."

The set began to blare again, and they both listened tensely. It was
Phil Mooney.

"Listen, you guys down there. If you're sitting around playing craps or
something, I'm going to have a few necks to break when I get down."

The two newspapermen stared at each other over the set. Ed Kerry ran
his tongue over his lips again.

The strained tone had gone from the voice of the spacepilot now and
had been replaced by one of hopelessness. He said, "I don't know who
I think I'm kidding. I know darn well that something's wrong with my
receiver and I can't find out what it is. Maybe my sender is off too,
for all I know. All I can pick up is some girl singing something about
white roses. White roses, yet! I want landing instructions and I get
white roses."

Ed Kerry jerked his head up and snapped, "Holy jumping hell, he's able
to pick some commercial station!"

Jake came to his feet, stuck his neck out of the door and yelled at the
top of his voice, "Phil Mooney is receiving some commercial station!
Some dame singing something about white roses! Check every station in
the city! Find out if any of them are broadcasting some dame singing
about white roses."

       *       *       *       *       *

_Ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt this program for an emergency
situation. Undoubtedly, you have heard on your newscasts and have read
in your papers of the tragic case of Lillian Marshall, child victim of
an atomic explosion on Luna which orphaned her and necessitated her
immediate flight to an Earth hospital._

_For the past three days the spacecraft carrying her, piloted by war
hero Phillip Mooney, has been having trouble with its radio. Due to
circumstances surrounding landing of spacecraft, the two have been
given up as lost in spite of the fact that almost hourly it has been
possible to receive messages from Mooney._

_It is now revealed that he is able to pick up this program on the
Interplanetary Broadcasting System network. We are not sure which of
the nearly two thousand stations of our system he is receiving, but we
will now attempt to reach Phillip Mooney with relayed messages from the
Oneonta Spaceport where expert medical care is awaiting little Lillian
Marshall._

_Come in Oneonta._

       *       *       *       *       *

_Calling Phil Mooney. Calling Phil Mooney. Come in, Phil. This is
Oneonta Spaceport, relaying through the Interplanetary Broadcasting
System. Come in, Phil._

"Phil Mooney, calling Oneonta. I'm getting you, Oneonta. Come in,
Oneonta. Over."

_Okay, Phil. Now this is it. We should have had you two hours ago, but
we'll make out all right. Your velocity is a little too high. Give it
six more units on your Kingston valves. Get that? Over._

"Got it. Six more units on the Kingstons. Over."

_All right now. Switch on your remote control, Phil. We'll take it from
here. Stand by the coordinators...._

[Illustration: _The little ship bulleted down toward Oneonta
Spaceport...._]

       *       *       *       *       *

It was night, but a blaze of lights illuminated the Oneonta Spaceport.
Hundreds of landcars stood on the parking lots, thousands of persons
crowded the wire fence which kept all but port personnel from the field
itself.

The old space-freighter sank easily to the apron and in seconds the
rocket flames died. A surge of humanity ebbed over the field toward the
craft.

Phil Mooney opened the pilot-compartment's hatch and stuck his head
out, blinking in surprise at the mob beneath him.

"I don't know what this is all about," he began, "but I've got a sick
kid aboard. There's supposed to be an ambulance...."

Police wedged through the crowd, convoying a white-haired,
white-jacketed man. He called up to the spacepilot, "We won't need an
ambulance, Mr. Mooney. I've already made arrangements for facilities
here at the airport for immediate treatment."

Phil Mooney made his way to the ground and scowled, still obviously
startled by the swelling crowd.

"Who in _kert_ are you?" he asked.

The other motioned for two assistants to enter the ship and bring out
the child. "I'm Doctor Kern," he said. "I'll see...."

"Doctor Adrian Kern, the radiation expert?" The pilot frowned
worriedly. "See here, doctor, the Marshalls were friends of mine, and
I've taken over the care of little Lillian, but I'm--well, I'm afraid I
couldn't afford to pay you ... I mean...."

The famous doctor smiled at him. "I've been retained by the
Interplanetary Golden Heart, Phil. You needn't worry about my fee.
Besides," and he smiled easily, "I'm not going to accept any fee for
this case. You see, I was listening to Marsha Malloy singing 'Love of
White Roses' when your call came through. I believe it was the most
poignant experience I have ever been through."

A girl next to the doctor gushed, "I'm Bunny Davis, Mr. Mooney. The
managing editor of our newspaper chain has authorized me to buy your
story for five thousand. If you'll just--"

Phil Mooney blinked. "I--I--"

A heavy-set man in a business suit grasped his hand and shook it
with fervor, while flashbulbs went off blindingly. "Phil," he said
huskily, as though moved by deep emotion, "as president of the board of
directors of Terra-Luna Spaceways, I wish to take this opportunity to
offer you a full--"

"Hey! Give us a smile, Phil," a man on top of a television truck
yelled....

       *       *       *       *       *

He was headed back for Luna the next day.

They'd been indignant, of course. There was Hollywood, and the
television networks, and that Terra-Luna Spaceways guy who wanted to
get in on all the publicity by offering him a vice-presidency. And the
newspaper editors, and the magazine editors, and all the rest of them.

Approximately a billion persons had been tuned in to the Interplanetary
network when the emergency landing instructions had been broadcast to
him through that system. A billion persons had sat on the edge of
their chairs, tensely, as his ship had been brought in.

He and little Lillian had received more publicity in the past
twenty-four hours than anyone since Lindbergh.

And the child would be all right now. Before he'd left, checks totaling
over a quarter of a million had come in for her. Donations from all
over the Earth and from Mars and Venus and even some from the Jupiter
satellites.

And offers of adoption. Thousands of them, from rich and poor--even
including Marsha Malloy, the video star who'd been singing that song,
"Love of White Roses."

Yes, Lillian would be all right. He wouldn't have been able to pay for
the medical care she'd needed; but now she had the most capable experts
on Earth at her disposal.

They had been indignant when he blasted off again for Luna. They'd
wanted to make a hero of him. This leaving on his part they interpreted
as modesty--which, come to think of it, would make him all the more of
a hero.

Phil Mooney slipped a hand down to his set and flicked it on. He dialed
over a dozen different stations. The news programs were all full of him
and of Lillian. You'd think, to hear them, that he was the noblest, the
most daring, the greatest man since Alexander the Great.

He grinned wryly. One of the reasons he'd been so anxious to leave
was to get away before somebody thought to check his set to see what
was wrong with it. Why, if anybody had found that it was actually in
perfect shape, they'd probably have lynched him.

Yeah. The colonel had been right. In the space-forces you learned to be
self-reliant. When you got in a bad spot, you figured it out yourself.
You're on your own; it's you against everything and everybody. Anything
goes.

His grin broadened. Maybe he wasn't a hero--the way they were all
painting him; but at least Lillian was all right now, and no longer
penniless the way her parents' death had left her.

--And he wasn't doing so badly himself.