"Any suggestions on how to do that?"
"How the hell should I know? Use a blowtorch. You're the friggen technician."
Robinson gave what could have been considered a smile, save that his lips formed a thin, stretched line. “We don't have welding equipment on board,” he said. “This is a space station, not an automobile muffler shop.” He gave a chortle of a laugh. “Hell, we don't even have a hammer."
"That's ridiculous."
"Hammers are just dead weight.” Robinson glanced at the sealed outer hatchway. “On the station, just about every tool is specialized—designed for a specific purpose.” He gave a desultory push against the hatch. “Anyway, it's really a computer problem."
"Computer problem?” K.V. laughed, harshly. “Every damned time something goes wrong these days, just blame the computer. I don't buy it. Even with this so-called space station's crummy computers. Yeah, I've seen them. They're junk."
"I don't doubt it,” said Robinson. “It's twenty-year-old technology. No money to space-certify anything newer.” Robinson clenched his fists. “And since the government won't give us what we need, we're forced to deal with any jerk who buys himself a ride."
"What? How dare you—"
Robinson pressed on. “This is your fault. Your stupid lightning generator.” He pounded the bulkhead, making a loud thud. “And speaking of which, what kind of a fly-by-night testing lab approved that thing?"
"They were tested and approved.” K.V. spoke with firmness, but Walter had been working with the man long enough to detect a tentativeness in his boss's voice.
Robinson and K.V. stood glaring at each other.
In that pause, Walter noticed that the cabin had become unnaturally quiet. He glanced over at Robinson. The engineer, a look of startled concern on his face, jerked his head around and fixed his gaze on the bulkhead. Walter followed the stare and saw only an air vent.
"Damn,” said Robinson under his breath. He darted to the comlink, hit a button and, head leaning against the bulkhead, talked softly.
Walter couldn't hear the conversation—except where the voice from the other end asked Robinson to keep the comlink engaged.
Hearing a scratching sound, Walter turned to see K.V. lighting a cigarette.
With a cry, Robinson push-glided to K.V., grabbed the lit cigarette and snubbed it out. Wide-eyed, K.V. stepped backward.
Robinson took a long breath. “Things are not good,” he said.
"What's wrong?” said K.V. For the first time he could recall, Walter didn't hear any arrogance in the director's voice.
Walter glanced at the air vent. “Why don't I hear machinery?"
"It's the air circulation system,” said Robinson. “It's shut down."
"Why?"
"Can't say, exactly,” said the Engineer. “But the lock system is linked to the emergency hull-breach system."
"I don't understand,” said Walter. “Is there a hull breach? And what does that have to do with the air."
"No. The hull seems fine."
"That's good,” said K.V. “Isn't it?"
Robinson shook his head, slowly. “If the electronics thinks there's been a hull breach in a cabin, that cabin is isolated from the rest of the station—even the air system is sealed so that air won't be sucked out of the station."
Robinson and Walter exchanged glances.
"And you think that's what happened?” said Walter.
Robinson gave a hint of a nod.
A high warbling tone broke the silence.
Robinson jumped at the sound. “Hull-breach alarm,” he said. “Spurious, I hope. But it means we're isolated now.” He turned to the comlink. “Guys. Get us out of here."
"We're working on it,” came the answer.
"I don't see how they'll do it,” said Robinson under his breath. “Not in time."
But K.V. apparently heard the words. “What do you mean, ‘not in time'?"
"All right.” Robinson looked down at his hands. “Unless we can get that door open,” he said quietly, almost at a whisper, “we'll suffocate in here."
"Doomsday is near. Die all. Die merrily,” said Walter. “Henry IV part 1."
"Shut up, please,” said Robinson.
"Sorry."
Walter thought he saw K.V. go limp—in zero gravity, it was hard to tell. But an instant later, the man drew himself up, ramrod straight.
"You're saying I'm going to die.” There was a hint of tremor in K.V.'s voice.
"We'll think of something,” said Robinson.
Walter almost laughed; Robinson was certainly not much of an actor—and even K.V. seemed to know it.
"How long?” said K.V.
"There's not much free space in this cabin.” Robinson bit his lip. “With three people and the catalytics using oxygen.... Oh, I don't know. Half an hour, maybe a little longer."
K.V. rubbed a hand across his forehead and then down over his eyes. “I'm going to die.” He seemed to be talking to himself.
"The lightening generator wasn't really approved,” said Robinson, “was it?"
"Would it help us get out of here,” said K.V., hand still over his eyes, “if I told you our idiot producer set an impossible schedule—that we didn't have time to get the approvals?"
"No."
"I didn't think so."
While Robinson and K.V. talked, Walter looked off through the porthole onto the star-sprinkled blackness. I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space. Suddenly and like a collision with a truck, he felt the impact of their situation. I am really going to die. He took a sharp breath, aware for once, of the precious value of oxygen. This is real death—not playacting. And now, he didn't know how to act. Act! What am I thinking? He'd been acting his life—living all his life through the window of a stage. I am a caricature of myself. Walter resolved then, that he'd at least make a good exit. He almost laughed. Acting again, but he'd not give K.V. the satisfaction of seeing him crack. Petty, vile man.
A motion on the video monitor caught his attention, giving him a desperate idea. “You know,” he said, not knowing if he was acting brave or actually being brave, and uncertain if indeed there was even a difference. “You know, we might be able to use the rovers to push the ‘Set’ button.” He locked eyes with Robinson. “If you're right, that would clear the lock mechanism, and let us open both doors."
"The rovers? That's impossible,” said K.V., his tone as imperious as ever.
"What's your idea?” said Robinson.
"Rovers have guns.” Walter leaned in over a console, grabbed the joystick and maneuvered his rover to focus on the other. “And they're relatively big.” He pointed to the monitor. “Look there. The launchers are on either side of the hood."
"Relatively, yes,” said Robinson, “but they're still pretty insignificant."
"But there's nothing to stop the missiles—no gravity, only air resistance."
"This is stupid,” said K.V. “We should be battering down the door, or something."
"A waste of oxygen,” said Robinson, without turning around.
"Morons,” said K.V.
Walter gritted his teeth.
K.V. turned his back, walked to the porthole and leaned his head onto the glass.
Robinson clapped Walter on the shoulder. “Okay. Let's try your idea.” He vaulted to the console seats and belted himself in. Walter followed.
As he fastened his harness, Walter wondered how K.V. had kept his composure: had so quickly reverted to his usual, nasty self. Maybe his nastiness is just the way he handles stress—not all that much different perhaps, than reciting Shakespeare.
"Which way?” said Robinson.
"What?"
"Where do you think we can get off a clean shot?"
Walter, pulling out of his introspection, stared up at his monitor. “I am amazed, methinks, and lose my way amongst—"
"Not now, please,” said Robinson.
"Sorry.” Damn. I'm doing it again. Walter focused his ro
ver to infinity. “I say. I think we're drifting."
Robinson glanced over at Walter's monitor. “Yeah, you're right. With the circulation pumps off, there're no air jets keeping the planet in place anymore."
"Maybe we'll get lucky and drift toward the lock mechanism."
"Yeah. Maybe."
It took about five minutes to find a position where they had a clear view of the ‘Set’ button.
"How steady are your hands?” asked Robinson.
"Steady enough."
"All right. You take the first shot. I'll watch your aim. If you miss, I'll try to compensate."
"Good.” Walter brought up cross hairs, and waited for the ‘Set’ button to drift into the center of his field. He hit the ‘Fire’ button.
Walter saw the little projectile enter his monitor's field of view, speed toward the button—and miss. “Damn."
"Jeez,” said Robinson from the adjacent seat. “I can't get a shot off. We're moving too fast."
"All right, then,” said Walter, wearily. “Let's move on and find another sight-line."
Robinson moved his rover to follow Walter's. “Yeah, fine.” He pounded a fist onto the armrest. “But it doesn't make sense. How could the rover's recoil move this whole planet? It doesn't make sense. The gun couldn't be that powerful."
Walter sighed. “Except for a small electrostatic generator,” he said, “Planet K is hollow."
"Hollow?"
"The shipping rates to the station,” said Walter, eyes on his monitor, and hand guiding his rover, “are, well, astronomical."
"Yeah, I know. You wouldn't believe how expensive it was to have my audio system shipped up."
"We'd planned to fill it with water up here, but we'd not known how scarce water is on the station.” Walter released his joystick. “This is hopeless; we're drifting too fast."
Just then, K.V. shouted at them. “What the hell are you doing? I'm dying and all you can do is have a pleasant little chat. Don't you understand what's happening? I'm going to die in here."
Walter, making claws of his fingers, brought his hands together, imagining K.V.'s neck between them. But before he could frame an answer, the sound of loud pounding reverberated through the control room.
As if he'd been hit, K.V. started. “Damn it. What now?” His magnetic boots holding him to the nominal floor, he bent his knees into a chair-less sitting position, with hands over his eyes and thumbs pushing against his ears. “I can't stand this."
"It's just the crew trying to break in,” said Robinson. He shook his head. “But God knows how they expect to do it."
Walter caught sight of the monitor. Through the lens of the rover, he saw the planet hurtling toward a bulkhead. “Whoa!"
"What?” Robinson peered up at the monitor. “Hey. I've got an idea."
Walter, unable to tear his eyes away from the impending planetary impact, said, “We could use one."
"We'll use the planet itself to push the button."
Walter jerked his head around and stared at Robinson. “You call that an idea?” he said. “Maybe the planet would eventually ricochet enough to hit the button, but that could take days."
"But we can put ‘English’ on the planet,” said Robinson, “to control the direction of the bounce. Like playing a 3-D version of Pong."
Walter looked at him, blankly. “English."
"By racing the rovers on the surface, we could affect the spin. Conservation of angular momentum."
Walter rubbed his forehead. His hand came away, wet. “May as well try it,” he said. “I'll follow your rover."
"And at the right time,” said Robinson, “we can fire the guns to give us even more spin.” He gripped the joystick. “Okay. Let's hope all the time I spent playing pool when I was a kid wasn't entirely wasted."
"Let's hope.” Walter inhaled and noticed an acrid smell in the air, like smoldering electronics. More quickly than he wanted to, he had to take another breath. “By the way,” he said, “it's getting a little hard to breathe in here."
Robinson nodded.
* * * *
"Now,” Robinson gasped. “Fire."
Walter, thinking it was probably his last conscious act, fired his rover's gun. He saw that Robinson had fired both his vehicle's guns as well. This was it.
While struggling to breathe, Walter witnessed a miracle; Planet K ricocheted from a bulkhead, throwing off ants as well as mounds of dirt. Then the sphere glided directly toward the ‘Set’ button. Walter held his breath—what little breath he had left to hold.
Planet K hit the button square on, sending more ants into weightlessness and filling the monitor with a shower of sand. A click came from the studio's door and Walter exhaled.
With obvious effort then, Robinson struggled out of his harness and push-floated to the door. He pulled at it, and it opened—bringing an influx of oxygen-rich air to where it was sorely needed.
Walter, his head resting against the padding of the console seat, watched Robinson silhouetted against the now vacant aluminum tetrahedron. The man's chest was heaving and his mouth was open. Walter closed his eyes and concentrated on his own breathing. Then, by the abrupt occurrence of a breeze, he was aware of Robinson floating past him toward the outer door.
"Damn it. Damn it to hell,” came Robinson's voice from the outer hatchway. Walter opened his eyes and rotated his head toward the voice.
"Still locked,” said Robinson over the sound of the pounding outside. “All we've done is bought a temporary reprieve."
While Robinson and Walter exchanged sad nods, K.V., still crouched, banged his fist into a bulkhead.
"Wait a minute,” said Robinson, pointing toward the open door to the studio. “Is there a screw driver in there? I can unscrew the lock panel and manually release the door."
"Yes,” said Walter, from his seat—he was still too weak to move. “In the supply drawer over the table."
Robinson shot back toward the studio, disappearing into the general clutter and the floating topsoil dislodged from planet K.
Walter heard the sounds of rummaging, and then Robinson's voice. “Flathead! Who the hell uses a flathead screwdriver anymore? I need a small Philips head. Do you have a Philips?"
"No."
"Damn!” Robinson, holding the flathead, push-floated out to the studio and made for the outer door's lock panel. After a few minutes of fiddling with the lock, he threw down the screwdriver. It ricocheted, its specially designed soft-coated handle causing inelastic collisions with the walls, reducing the rebound speed at each bounce.
"Wait a minute.” Robinson retrieved the screwdriver. “Maybe I can grind it down.” Breathing heavily, he began scraping the blade against the bulkhead. “It's hardened steel, but maybe...."
Walter heard a loud blow against the outside door, and then a rasping noise. He looked over and saw that a thin rod had broken through. He smiled, recognizing that the rod was the tip of a Philips head screwdriver. With another rasping noise, the rod withdrew, leaving a quarter-inch round hole.
K.V. unwound from his crouch and leapt for it, putting his mouth over the hole. Robinson flew at the man and pulled him away. No sooner had K.V's mouth left the aperture than a there came another pounding sound and another rod came through—a thicker screwdriver.
"That screwdriver could easily have gone through the back of your throat,” said Robinson.
K.V. put a hand over his mouth and, taking quick, shallow breaths, withdrew to the free rover-console seat.
Not comfortable with the company, Walter unstrapped his harness and floated over to join Robinson. They both watched as the hole was made steadily larger.
Then a voice came from the comlink. “Okay, the hole's large enough. We'll pass you a small screwdriver. I gather you know what to do with it."
Robinson laughed. “You bet.” He reached down and grasped the screwdriver as it was passed through. He began to remove the six screws that held on the lock panel's cover. “By the way,” he said as he withdrew the fourth s
crew. “What did you use as a hammer?"
The comlink was silent.
"Well?"
"In your lab, we, ur...” came the voice. “We cannibalized your stereo—a speaker magnet."
Robinson froze. “Oh no. Not my Acousticon Twelves."
"Just one of them,” said the crewmember. “Anyway, it saved your life."
Robinson leaned his forehead against the bulkhead. “Not sure it was worth it. You don't know what I had to go through to get those speakers."
K.V. twisted in his console seat. “Get on with it,” he said. “You can chitchat on your own time."
Shaking his head, Robinson took out the remaining screws. He removed the faceplate and stuck his hand in. Walter saw the man grimace and then there came a click. Robinson pulled out his hand and pushed open the door.
Five crewmembers peered in. Walter was surprised to see that one of them was none less than Commander Hendrix, the ranking officer on the station.
Hendrix walked into the cabin. There wasn't really room enough for anyone else to come in with him.
Robinson stepped back and leaned casually against a bulkhead. “Good of you to drop by, Commander,” he said.
Walter smiled. This Robinson is a rather better actor than I'd thought.
"Oh,” said Hendrix just as casually, “just wondered what you've been up to lately."
K.V. pushed himself erect from the console seat and clomped over to Hendrix. “I'm glad to see you,” he said. “I'm not sure how much longer I could have kept these two from losing it.” He laughed, a warm friendly laugh, and gave Walter an avuncular pat on the shoulder. “A word here, a word there, and they thought their ideas were their own.” He turned to Robinson. “I'm sorry I had to be devious, but I had to keep you and Walter focused."
Walter opened his mouth in dismay. “But..."
While K.V. turned to give Walter another pat on the shoulder, Robinson and Hendrix exchanged amused glances.
"Um,” said Robinson, stepping forward from the bulkhead. “I think that—"
This Little World Page 2
