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“What do you think, Jules?” said St. Simon.

“Waal, Ah reckon we can do it, cap’n. Ef’n we go to the one o’ them thar poles … well, let’s see–” He leaned over and punched more figures into the calculator. “Ain’t that purty! ‘Cordin’ ter this, thar’s a spot at each pole, ’bout a meter in diameter, whar the gee-pull is greater than the centry-foogle force!”

Captain St. Simon looked at the figures on the calculator. The forces, in any case, were negligibly small. On Earth, where the surface gravity was ninety-eight per cent of a Standard Gee, St. Simon weighed close to two hundred pounds. Discounting the spin, he would weigh about four ten-thousandths of a pound on the asteroid he was inspecting. The spin at the equator would try to push him off with a force of about two tenths of a pound.

But a man who didn’t take those forces into account could get himself killed in the Belt.

“Very well, Jules,” he said, “we’ll inspect the poles.”

“Do you think they vill velcome us in Kraukau, Herr Erzbischof?“

* * * * *

The area around the North Pole–defined as that pole from which the body appears to be spinning counterclockwise–looked more suitable for operations than the South Pole. Theoretically, St. Simon could have stopped the spin, but that would have required an energy expenditure of some twenty-three thousand kilowatt-hours in the first place, and it would have required an anchor to be set somewhere on the equator. Since his purpose in landing on the asteroid was to set just such an anchor, stopping the spin would be a waste of time and energy.

Captain St. Simon positioned his little spacecraft a couple of meters above the North Pole. It would take better than six minutes to fall that far, so he had plenty of time. “Perhaps a boarding party, Mr. Christian! On the double!”

“Aye, sir! On the double it is, sir!”

St. Simon pushed himself over to the locker, took out his vacuum suit, and climbed into it. After checking it thoroughly, he said: “Prepare to evacuate main control room, Mr. Christian!”

“Aye, aye, Sir! All prepared and ready. I hope.”

Captain St. Simon looked around to make sure he hadn’t left a bottle of coffee sitting somewhere. He’d done that once, and the stuff had boiled out all over everywhere when he pulled the air out of the little room. Nope, no coffee. No obstacles to turning on the pump. He thumbed the button, and the pumps started to whine. The whine built up to a crescendo, then began to die away until finally it could only be felt through the walls or floor. The air was gone.

Then he checked the manometer to make sure that most of the air had actually been pumped back into the reserve tanks. Satisfied, he touched the button that would open the door. There was a faint jar as the remaining wisps of air shot out into the vacuum of space.

St. Simon sat back down at the controls and carefully repositioned the ship. It was now less than a meter from the surface. He pushed himself over to the open door and looked out.

He clipped one end of his safety cable to the steel eye-bolt at the edge of the door. “Fasten on carefully, Jules,” he said. “We don’t want to lose anything.”

“Like what, mon capitain?“

“Like this spaceship, mon petit tete de mouton.”

“Ah, but no, my old and raw; we could not afford to lose the so-dear Nancy Bell, could we?”

The other end of the long cable was connected to the belt of the suit. Then St. Simon launched himself out the open door toward the surface of the planetoid. The ship began to drift–very slowly, but not so slowly as it had been falling–off in the other direction.