“What’s wrong?” asked Claymoor.
They both answered: “The engines are off.”
“Automatic shutdown.” Jennifer’s voice. “To prevent damage.”
“How long will they stay shut down?” Hutch asked.
“Minimum time’s about twenty minutes,” he said.
“That’s way too long. Can you override?”
“This is not one of the designated situations, Hutch.”
“Who the hell cares? We can explain later.”
“Jennifer cares. She won’t allow it.”
“Goddam, Yuri. Override her.”
“It’ll take too much time.”
Claymoor was looking from one to the other. “What does it mean?” he asked.
“It means,” said Hutch, “that we’ll go roaring past the chindi with all flags flying.”
Chapter 36
Know when to stop.
— PIERRE CHINAUD, HANDBOOK FOR DICTATORS, 2188
THE SKY HAD not changed. The stars didn’t move, didn’t rotate past as they seemed to do from Iowa. Everything stayed in precisely the same place. Frozen. Nothing rose and nothing set. Time had simply stopped.
Except for the oxygen gauge, which stood at fifty minutes.
Hurry, Hutch.
Eventually, maybe years from now, someone else would find his shelter, and he wondered what they would make of it. A display out in one of the corridors? Or maybe the robots would eventually clean it up and get rid of it. Or might they set it up in a chamber of its own, complete with an image of himself? Did they recognize that artifacts might come on board of their own volition?
He considered yet again how best to end things when the time came. He didn’t want to smother.
He could shut off the suit, but he wasn’t sure the effect wouldn’t be much the same. He remembered seeing pictures of a woman whose suit had failed, the only known case, and it was clear she’d died in agony.
He gripped the cutter. If it came to it, that might be best.
He pushed it out of his mind and steered his thoughts elsewhere. He reminisced about old friends, lost lovers, a Michigan lake where his family used to take him canoeing on vacations, a philosophy professor who’d advised him to make his life count for something.
That had been Harry Axelrod, a nervous little man with an Eastern European accent and questionable control of English. No one had taken him very seriously. The students had conducted pools before class on how many times he would use his favorite phrase, The essence of the matter is…
But Axelrod’s basic message never left him during those long hours on the chindi. Life is short. Even with the treatments, be aware that a couple of centuries is a desperately brief time in the grand scale. You get a few visits from the comet (he meant Halley’s), and nothing more. Embrace your life, find what it is that you love, and pursue it with all your soul. For if you do not, when you come to die, you will find that you have not lived.
Tor had not lived. He had worked hard, studied hard, made a good career for himself. Prior to this misbegotten chindi adventure, he’d never taken time off. He had no children. It was the uneventful nature of his life that had, sadly, brought him here. Maybe that was really why he’d joined the Contact Society, in the hope he could manage an accomplishment of one sort or another, be along when something significant happened. In fact, everything he’d thought about had occurred. To a far greater degree than he could have hoped. Safe Harbor, the angels, and the Retreat. And the chindi, which would probably go on record as the biggest single scientific discovery ever. Yet it all felt empty.
He’d loved two women, had lost them both because he’d accepted their indifference too readily and simply allowed them to walk away.
Well, maybe he’d gotten one back.
Her voice startled him. “Tor, if you can hear me, we’re less than a half hour away.”
“Come get me, Hutch. I’m still here. You don’t—”
“Nothing to worry about now.”
“—have time to waste. It’ll be good—”
“We’re running with the chindi now. Greenwater worked.”
“—to see you again.”
“We’re behind you. Coming up fast.”
Thank God.
“I bet we won’t go wandering off again onto large artifacts. Especially ones with big propulsion tubes.”
No, ma’am. Count on it.
“In about fifteen minutes, we’ll be within your transmission range. You’ll be able to talk to us.”
“WHAT ARE YOU doing, Hutch?”
She was on her feet, headed for the door. “Going after him,” she said.
“How?”
“With the shuttle.”
“Won’t work. There’s not enough firepower to do a maneuver like this.” He was talking about fuel. “You checked with Jennifer?”
“I didn’t have to. But yes, I did. Yuri, we’re close. Jennifer can’t know precisely how much is in the tank. It won’t hurt to try.”
“If the tank was full, it still wouldn’t be enough to brake down.”
She was out the door. Standing around arguing was just losing time. She charged down the central passageway, took the ramp to the lower deck, grabbed an e-suit, and pulled it on. She was fastening the harness and reaching for go-packs and spare air tanks when Claymoor appeared.
“I’m going, too.”
“Can’t. Here, give me a hand.” She pushed two go-packs at him and picked up two more. Ordinarily a yacht like the McCarver would have two at most, but Mogambo and his people had added theirs to the general supply.
He took them, gave her a hand with the air tanks, picked up an e-suit for himself, and followed her toward the airlock. (Because of the Mac’s dimensions, her shuttle was attached to the hull.) “Why not?”
“I’m sorry, Henry. You weigh too much. I’ve got to move, and the more mass we pack, the harder it’ll be.”
“Oh, come on, Hutchins—”
“It’s basic physics.” She took the gear from him, thanked him, and tossed everything into the lock. “We’ll do a great interview when I get back. Meantime I have to go.”
He looked angry, dismayed, frustrated. But he stood aside. “I’ll hold you to that,” he said.
It took forever for the outer hatch to open. When it provided sufficient room she squeezed through, hauled her equipment out onto the hull, and made for the shuttle.
“Good luck,” said Claymoor, over the link.
Hutch opened up and climbed in. She locked her gear down, and the AI released the spacecraft. She started the engine and waited for green lamps. “Jennifer,” she said, “assume adequate fuel. Give me a course.”
Jennifer complied. It was pretty much straight ahead. Hutch fed it into the onboard navigator. “You understand,” Jennifer said, “that it will be necessary to run the engines until the fuel gives out.”
“I understand.”
The engine fired, and she pulled quickly away from the yacht.
“Fuel will last between ten and twelve minutes.”
“Okay. Assume adequate quantity for the mission. Time to chindi?”
“Twenty-one minutes.”
“Hutch.” Brownstein again. “We have it on the scopes.” He relayed the image. It was enhanced, and Jennifer had brightened things a bit. She looked for Tor, hoping he’d be standing out on the surface, but the picture wasn’t clear enough.
SHUTTLES DON’T CARRY much fuel. They have no atmospheric capability and are used exclusively for ship-to-ship or ship-to-station operations. Consequently, they simply don’t need much fuel. The pilot, or the AI, programs a course, uses the propulsion system to provide a kick in the right direction, and settles down to a glide path. Hutch, on the other hand, was using the engine to brake, so it would be firing nonstop and gulping its supply of fuel precipitously.
She opened her channel to the chindi and held her breath. “Tor, can you hear me?”
“Hutch? Are you out there somewhere?” His voice sound
ed strained, frightened, relieved.
“I’m in a shuttle. Approaching from the rear and above, a few degrees off the starboard quarter.”
“Thank God, Hutch. I’m almost out of air.”
“I know. Sit tight. We’ve been having some problems.”
“Yeah. I got that impression.” She heard him take a deep breath. “Why are you in a shuttle? Where’s the ship?”
“Engines gave out.”
“You’re kidding.”
“It’s all right,” she said. “The shuttle works fine.”
“Good. Hutch, you have no idea how glad I am that you’re here.”
“I think I do—”
“Fuel is down to three-quarters,” Jennifer said.
Ideally, if she could continue to brake at her present rate, she could slow down enough to match the chindi’s speed and simply drift in beside the exit hatch and pick Tor up.
Voila`.
Except that she was going to run out of fuel before that could happen, and the shuttle would gallop past. “Tor,” she said, “how much air have you left?”
He hesitated. “Twenty minutes. Maybe a little bit more.”
Ahead, she could make out the chindi. “Yuri,” she said “I’ve got visual contact.”
“Acknowledge.”
“Are you still watching it?”
“Yes.”
“Can you see Tor?”
Hesitation. “Yes. He’s outside. Near the hatch.”
“Okay, Yuri. There’s a possibility.”
“Hutch, what possibility?” He sounded as if he thought she might try to crash the thing.
“Jennifer, using best estimate of fuel reserves, if we continue with the original plan, and we run out when you expect us to, how fast will we be traveling when we pass the chindi?”
“Approximately seventy kilometers per hour.”
It sounded possible.
“Hutch, you are approximately seven minutes from engine shutdown.”
She looked over at the go-packs. “Jennifer, let’s try it a different way. I need you to do some math for me.” She described her idea.
“Won’t work,” Jennifer said. “The go-pack doesn’t have enough fuel. It’ll give you eight minutes before it goes out. That’s not enough. You’d still hit at over fifty.”
“That’s not so good,” Hutch said.
“You would bounce once and continue on your way.”
“If there were a way to get the tanks to him…”
“The tanks, like your parts, would keep traveling. You are not going to attempt this, surely.”
No, she wasn’t.
“Hutch.” Tor sounded excited: “I can see your lights.”
“Just a little while now,” she said. Her brow was damp and she had to wipe sweat out of her eyes. She took a drink of water, still trying to get the taste of vomit out of her throat, and then turned on her e-suit. “Jennifer, depressurize the cabin.”
“Complying.” The AI hesitated, and Hutch could almost hear her sigh. The chindi was still hard to make out, not much more than a shadow moving among the stars.
“Fuel at one-eighth,” said Jennifer. “Range to the chindi is 380 kilometers. Closing at 2420 kph.” Relative to the chindi.
Hutch gave the controls back to the AI.
“I advise against this procedure,” said Brownstein.
She was thinking how to handle four go-packs. “I know, Yuri,” she said.
“I’m aware that you do. My advice is for the record.”
She couldn’t do anything to get ready until the gee forces subsided. But that wasn’t going to take long: The fuel warning lamp began to blink.
“Hutch, are we going to be able to manage this?” Tor’s voice, sounding worried.
She removed a pinger from the console and clipped it onto her harness. “Yeah, we’re fine. But listen, you’re going to see the shuttle sail past without stopping. Don’t worry about it. I won’t be in it.”
“You won’t? Where’ll you be? What’s going on?”
“Range 360,” said Jennifer.
“I’ll be coming in by go-pack.”
“Hutch, why…?”
“I’ll explain later. It’s going to be okay, Tor.”
The chindi’s bulk was expanding across the stars. She could make out the propulsion tubes now.
The lamps went bright red, and the engines shut down. End of the line. She opened the inner hatch. “Hutch, range is 340.”
“Okay.” The gee forces had gone away. She climbed into the backseat where she had more room, pulled a go-pack over her shoulders. At a standard one gee, it would have weighed nine kilograms.
She strapped a second go-pack onto her belly, was pleasantly surprised to discover it fit nicely, and that it could probably be fired without damaging any vital parts. As long as she didn’t move too much.
She used a five-meter length of cable to tie the remaining two go-packs together, and looped the loose end over her shoulder.
She struggled over to the hatch, feeling like a mover. Even though she was in zero gravity, the go-packs were awkward to handle. She squeezed through and bumped out into the night.
THE CHINDI WAS a large dark mass dead ahead. Its propulsion tubes, four dully reflective rings, were pointed in her direction. She activated the pinger, which would home in on Tor’s radio signal and allow her to head directly for him. She used her attitude control to aim her feet at the chindi, and thereby, more or less, the nozzles of the two go-packs. Satisfied she was on target, she hit the green buttons simultaneously. The go-packs fired their thrusters and she felt a gentle backward thrust. The shuttle began to move ahead.
The unit she’d tied on to her belly tried to go sideways, but she quickly straightened it and held it in place.
“It’s working,” she told Brownstein.
“Hutch,” he replied. “Remind me not to travel with you again.”
“Best traditions of the service,” she said.
“Right. Make sure you don’t whack into the thing’s ass end.”
“I’m slowing down.”
“One would hope. You have the extra pair of go-packs?”
“Sure.”
“The way we read it, if you use both sets, at the very best you’ll still be doing thirty klicks when you hit the hatch.”
“That’s not so good.”
“No, it isn’t. Hutch, this is not going to work. You try to set down at that pace, and you’ll bounce all the way to Vega.”
Some of that must have spilled over onto Tor’s channel. “Hutch, what are you doing?” he demanded.
She wasn’t entirely sure.
Chapter 37
“Dr. Livingstone, I presume.”
— HENRY STANLEY, 1871
TOR LISTENED WITH growing horror while she explained. Coming in too fast. Going to pass overhead. No way to slow down. Don’t know what else to try. “I could go up one of the propulsion tubes.”
“I don’t think that would work.”
“I wasn’t serious.”
He was standing beside the exit hatch. Everything seemed absolutely still. A peaceful night under the stars.
“I’m out of ideas,” she was saying.
“Are you still braking?”
“Yes. Using two packs. Got two more when these give out. But I don’t think they’re going to be enough.”
Tor looked back, over the flat ground between the ridges, past the distant arcs of the thrusters, trying to see her. The shuttle’s lights had grown brighter, but of course she wouldn’t be visible out there anywhere. “Do you have enough air for yourself?”
“Yes. Sure.”
“You’re certain.”
“Did you want me to go back?”
They both laughed, and it was as if a wall had broken inside him, and he recognized it was over. And when he had done that, when he’d resigned himself that he wasn’t going to survive, he laughed again. “I’ll wave as you go by.”
Hutch was silent.
; “How fast will you be traveling when you get here?”
“About thirty klicks.”
“And you’ll be here in….?”
“Thirteen minutes and counting.”
Thirty klicks. It wasn’t all that fast. He felt a flicker of hope, and almost regretted it. Resignation seemed better. “Maybe there’s still a way to do it,” he said.
“How?”
“You’d take some lumps.”
“How? What do we do?”
“Hold on a few seconds.”
He dropped down the exit hatch, switched on his lamp, and ran toward First and Main.
“What?” she demanded.
“I’ll explain in a minute. Let me see first whether it’s feasible.” He charged past the werewolf, feeling for the first time that his air was getting a bit close. He pulled up at the Ditch. The cable still hung down to the lower decks.
He started hauling it up. There was more of it than he remembered, but that was good.
“I don’t want to rush you, Tor, but if you’re got something, you’d better make it quick.”
“Try to get low. I’m going to toss you a rope.” He heard her laugh again. But this time the sound sent a chill up his spine. “I’m serious.”
“Do it,” she said. “I don’t have anything better.”
There was a lot of cable. Almost a hundred meters. It was strong stuff, and he tried to loop it around his shoulder as it came out of the hole but there was too much to keep in order. And it seemed to go on forever.
“Tor, what kind of rope?”
“A net. It’ll be about six meters across. Right where I’m standing.”
“Net made of what?”
“Cable.”
He gave up waiting for the end to appear and decided hell with it. He started back toward the exit, trying to run, dragging it behind him. He climbed the ladder, went through the exit hatch, and pulled it out onto the surface.
“I’ve exhausted the first set of go-packs,” said Hutch. “Switching to my reserves.”
The line behind him had gotten tangled.
He was still sorting it out when the shuttle glided past. It was a couple of hundred meters off to one side. There were no directions here, no east or west. Starboard, he thought. It’s off the starboard side. Some of its lights died as he watched.
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