by Bill Myers
“What type of idiot would build a space station with only one door?” I asked in amazement. “There should be another section with another door.”
“There is,” O’Brien said grimly. He pointed to the new section still sitting in our cargo bay. The new section that I had ruined by putting a giant dent in it. “It’s right there. . . .”
Ten minutes passed. Everyone went over the problem again and again, and then again some more. Each time they came to the same solution: Pilot O’Brien would have to cross over and free up the hatch handle from the outside. It wasn’t anyone’s favorite solution, but since it was the only one we had, they decided to go for it.
I watched through the cargo bay window as Pilot O’Brien reopened our outside air lock. Next he attached a short cable from his suit to the “clothesline” that ran from the shuttle to the space station.
“I’ve attached my tether,” he said over the radio. “I’m pushing off now.”
“Be careful,” Commander Phillips warned.
He made his way slowly across the line toward the space station. I don’t know why I was so nervous. Maybe it was being all alone in the shuttle. Maybe it was O’Brien being out there all by himself. Or maybe it was knowing that, thanks to me, the door to the space station was jammed shut. Thanks to me, all six members of the station as well as Commander Phillips, Dr. Lambert, and Meyer were trapped inside. It’s not that I’m the nervous type or anything, but being responsible for the life (or death) of nine people can put you a little on edge.
Then, to top it off, I started to do what I always do when I’m nervous. I started to itch. The itches on my arms and legs weren’t so bad. I could reach them.
But then my nose started to itch.
Now, on Earth it’s no big deal. When your nose itches, all you have to do is reach up and give the ol’ honker a scratch. But it’s not quite so easy in outer space when you’re wearing a space helmet. Think about it. How do you scratch your nose when you’re inside a space helmet?
I had no answer, and I was needing one more and more desperately. I had to do something. I gave my head a little shake, hoping it would help.
It made the itch worse.
I tried again. Nothing.
And again, even harder.
More of nothing.
Something had to be done. By now it was unbearable. I tried not to think about it. But the more I thought about not thinking about it, the more I was thinking about thinking about it, which made it even worse.
I shook my head, this time for all I was worth. The good news was, my glasses slipped halfway off my nose and hit the itch dead center.
All right! Score!
The bad news was, my glasses were now cockeyed on my face. Majorly cockeyed. So cockeyed that I could no longer see out of them— well, except for one tiny left-hand corner at the bottom.
But that was okay. It’s not like I had to do anything or see anything. All I had to do was sit still until they all got back. Just sit still, and, as O’Brien had said, “Don’t touch a thing.”
No problem.
“William?” O’Brien’s voice came though my headset. “I’m going to need your help.”
Now we had a problem.
I looked back out the window to O’Brien. It took a little doing, holding my head just right to catch a glimpse of him through the bottom corner of my left lens. I noticed that his tether was too short and that he had unhooked it to reach the hatch. But that was okay, he had a good firm hold on the hatch handle and wasn’t going anywhere.
“William,” he said again, “the manipulator arm is blocking the door. I’m going to need you to move it just a few inches to the left.”
“Me?” It was supposed to be a question. It came out like a scream.
“Relax, it’s not that difficult. I know you watched me maneuver the arm into position, and I know Meyer showed you how to use it yesterday.”
“Yeah, but . . .”
“Just take the Rational Hand Controller and—”
“The what?”
“The handle to the right and below the window. Just push it, ever so slowly, to the left.”
Commander Phillips’s voice came over the radio. “Are you sure that’s such a good idea?”
“Yeah,” I squeaked, “remember what happened the last time I helped.”
“It’s a simple procedure,” O’Brien insisted. “Just push the handle to the left, very slowly and very slightly.”
I waited for somebody else to butt in, for somebody to explain to him who he was dealing with. But nobody said a word . . .
Except O’Brien. “Let’s go, Walden!”
I was trapped. There was no way out. Oh, sure, I could mention my cockeyed glasses and that I couldn’t see a thing. But he’d already seen my stupendous coordination for the past twenty-four hours. And if that didn’t scare him off, then the minor problem of being totally blind wouldn’t do the trick either.
With a deep breath I slowly reached for the handle. My heart pounded like a rap song gone berserk as I inched my hand closer and closer. So far, so good. Well, except for the part where my glasses were so far off my face that I couldn’t judge the distance.
When I thought I had a good six inches to go before I touched the handle, my hand bumped into it. Not much, but enough.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WADSWORTH? . . .”
I looked up just in time to see the manipulator arm smack into O’Brien. Not very hard, but enough.
“W A D S W O R T H . . .”
He had nothing to hang onto. Nothing to catch himself with. He started to sail away, in slow motion. His arms and legs began to flail, like he was swimming, digging in all directions at once.
But nothing he did helped. There was nothing he could do to stop himself as he slowly drifted away from the space station. Even though my glasses were cockeyed, I still managed to see the look on his face. And I still wished I hadn’t. It made my blood run cold. It was the look of sheer terror—the same terror that filled his voice as he slowly sailed past my window and out into space.
“HELP ME! . . .”
Chapter 7
Rescue
“Wally, Wally, listen to me very carefully.” It was Commander Phillips. He was still over at the space station. By the sound of things, he’d crawled out of his little ball and was looking through one of their windows. “O’Brien needs your help.”
“What do we do?” I cried.
“I’m afraid it’s not we, Wally. There’s nothing we can do. We’re all locked up inside here.”
“Then who?” I asked, already feeling a tiny ball knotting in my stomach.
“I’m afraid it’s you.”
“Me?” That tiny ball in my stomach had just become a beach ball.
“You’re the only one who can help. If you don’t get out there and grab him, if you don’t bring him back, O’Brien will be floating in space forever.”
“He can’t float there forever,” I said, looking down at the digital readout on my chest. Since my glasses were still cockeyed, it took a little neck twisting and craning to finally make out the numbers. “He’s only got 6.1 hours of air left.”
“Then you better get moving.”
I’ll save you the ugly details . . .
—like how I begged and pleaded for them to find another way.
—like how I whimpered and whined about my fear of heights.
—like how I blubbered and bawled (not a good idea unless you like watching little tear drops floating around inside your space helmet) for them to find another hero.
Nothing worked. They were fresh out of heroes. In fact, they were fresh out of humans. All they had was me.
And then I heard it: O’Brien’s voice. It was weak and very, very frightened. “Wendell . . . help me . . . please . . .”
All of my life I’d played the superhero, but only in my writing. Only on my laptop, where all that could go wrong was getting a good case of writer’s cramp. But now . . . now the only thing that could go wrong was
. . . well, just about everything. The possibilities were mind-boggling! The chances of chaos, staggering.
“Please, Willard . . .”
But what other choice did I have? I knew I’d probably botch things up. I knew I’d probably die a couple dozen times in the process. But somebody had to do something. And since I was the only somebody around, I knew I was elected.
Five minutes later I stood inside the air hatch as Commander Phillips gave me careful directions. “Find the switch labeled ‘AIR-LOCK DEPRESS’.”
I tilted my head and squinted until I saw it through my bottom left lens. “Got it.”
“Is it turned to the ‘0’ position?”
More tilting and more squinting. “Yes.”
“Good. Then reach up, pull the handle, and slide open the hatch.”
I did. And what I saw (or sort of saw) took my breath away. Directly below me was the Earth. But not the Earth through a space shuttle window. This was the Earth with nothing between us but two-hundred miles of nothing.
I gasped.
“Sounds like you’re outside,” Commander Phillips said, chuckling.
I tried to answer, but that would mean having to catch my breath. And right now it was a little lost in all the fear and in all the beauty.
“Wally, are you there? Wally? Wally!”
“Present,” I croaked.
“We’re going to have to hurry. Every second we waste, O’Brien drifts farther from the shuttle. Look to your left. Do you see something that resembles the giant back of a chair?”
I cocked my head sideways until I spotted it. “Yes.”
“That’s your MMU.”
“My what?”
“It’s like a rocket backpack. It can take you wherever you want to go.”
“How ’bout home?”
“If you follow my instructions, we’ll all get there.”
“But . . .” I swallowed. “I’m lousy at following instructions. That’s how I wound up here in the first place. That’s how you guys got locked inside that space station!”
“Well, you better start learning,” Commander Phillips said, “because it’s the only way you can get us down. Now, cross over to the MMU.”
I did.
“Pull down the control arms.”
I did.
“Now, back into it and take hold of the controls.”
I didn’t. “No way,” I argued. “If I touch those controls, I’ll ruin them.”
“No, you won’t. Not if you follow my instructions.”
I sighed good and hard so he could hear me. I figured if you’re going to die, it’s good to let those responsible for your death know you’re put out about it. I backed into the MMU, pulled down the arms, and took hold of the two controls, one for each hand. They were kind of like door handles that you could turn and swivel.
Commander Phillips continued. “The control in your right hand is your roll, pitch, and yaw command.”
“My what?”
“If you twist it to the right you’ll go upside down in a clockwise direction. To the left and—”
Before Commander Phillips could explain any more, I gave the control a little turn. “This one here?” Suddenly, I started spinning.
“AUGH!”
“WALLY!”
I grabbed the other control, the one for my left hand. I figured if the right sent me spinning, then the left would send me stopping. That’s what I get for figuring. Instead of stopping, I shot out of the cargo bay spinning upside down, sideways, and every other way . . .
“AUGH! AUGH!”
“WALLY! WALLY!”
“AUGH! AUGH! AUGH!”
“WALLY! WALLY! WALLY!”
The conversation was getting a little boring, so I changed subjects and shouted, “WHAT DO I DO?”
“You’ve got to level off!”
“HOW?”
“Reverse the controls. Turn your right to the left and pull back on your left.”
“MY RIGHT TO MY WHAT AND PULL MY LEFT TO WHO?”
“No! Your right hand, turn that control to the left. And your left hand, pull that control back toward you.”
I gave it a shot, and after a few lifetimes passing before my eyes, I began to slow down.
“Okay,” Commander Phillips said, “now ease up on the controls.”
“No way!” I shouted. “I’m finally slowing down, why should I ruin it now by—”
“Wally, ease up! WALLY!”
For the slightest second everything stopped, but only for the slightest second. Suddenly, everything began to spin the other way as I started to shoot backward.
“AUGH! AUGH! AUGH!”
“Wally, don’t start that again.”
“WHAT DO I DO?”
“Turn the controls back the other way. Only gently this time.”
I twisted the controls back the other way, much more gently, and eased off when Commander Phillips said to ease off. And, surprise of surprises, I was actually starting to float right side up again.
Ahead of me, I saw something white. At first I thought it was a meteor or satellite or something— until I noticed this particular meteor or satellite or something happened to have arms and legs.
“I see him!” I shouted. “I see O’Brien!”
“Good.”
Commander Phillips gave me more commands, and, after making a few hundred mistakes, I finally caught on. Eventually, I was scooting toward O’Brien. But I was going just a little slower than I liked. So, without bothering to tell Commander Phillips, I pushed the controls forward so I could get there faster.
I made good headway. Pilot O’Brien was growing larger. Things were going great. O’Brien even gave me a friendly wave. At least I thought it was friendly. It wasn’t until I was nearly on top of him that I realized he wasn’t waving, “Hi there.” He was waving, “Get back, get away, you’re coming too fast!”
There were other clues, too, like his shouting: “Get back, get away, you’re coming too fast!”
I threw the controls into reverse as quickly as I could, but it was too late. O’Brien’s eyes widened in horror as he tried to swim out of the way. Nothing helped. I slammed into him like a freight train without brakes. His right shoulder kind of crumpled under the impact. He gave a little “OAFF!” and suddenly went limp. I reached out and managed to grab him as we started to tumble and spin out of control.
“O’Brien!” I shouted. “O’Brien, can you hear me?”
He stirred and opened his eyes. I could tell he was hurting by the way he winced. He glanced at me and then looked down at the oxygen readout on his chest. Suddenly, he seemed very concerned and motioned for me to look.
I did.
I wished I hadn’t. For some reason, the guy had less than two hours of air left—and it was going fast! I watched as the readout dropped:
1.8 . . . 1.7 . . . 1.6 . . .
“What’s going on?” I asked.
He whispered hoarsely. “You must have ripped a tiny hole in my suit. I’m losing pressure. Get me back. Quick, get me back.”
We were still tumbling out of control, farther and farther away from the Encounter.
I looked back down at his readout:
1.4 . . . 1.3 . . .
“What do I do?” I cried. “How do I turn us around?”
O’Brien could barely answer, the pain was so great. “Level us off. Turn us around and head back toward the shuttle.”
“But how do I—”
“You got out here, didn’t you?” he gasped. “Just take your time. Level off, slowly, and turn us around.”
With O’Brien practically sitting in my lap, things were a little tricky, but with his help I somehow managed to straighten us out. Then we turned around. But when we finally faced the shuttle, I almost lost it. The Encounter and Space Station One were farther away than I had imagined. I glanced at O’Brien, then at his readout:
1.1 . . . 1.0 . . .
I tried to fight back the panic, but it didn’t do much good. I knew we
wouldn’t make it back in time.
Chapter 8
Recovery
I looked first at O’Brien’s concerned face and then at his oxygen readout:
0.9 . . . 0.8 . . .
“We’re not going to make it!” I said. “You’re almost out of air.”
“Push forward on the left control,” he ordered. “Increase your speed, push us forward.”
“Forget it,” I answered. “That’s how I got us in this jam in the first place. I was going too fast.”
“Do it, Wilbur.”
“I’ll kill us.”
“You’ll kill me if you don’t!” He caught himself and tried again, this time pretending to be more calm and relaxed. “You’re going to have to push forward on the left control just as far as it will go.”
I looked down at his readout:
0.6 . . . 0.5 . . .
I had no choice. I pushed forward on the handle, and we shot off.
“WHOAAA . . .”
“We’re traveling at 66 feet per second,” he said. “We’ll be there in no time f lat.”
He was right. The Encounter came faster than I ever thought possible.
“Now, ease back . . . pull her back. Not too hard. Easy does it now.”
I glanced again at his pack:
0.4 . . . 0.3 . . .
“Slow us down just a little more.”
We drifted over the shuttle bay doors.
“Now, drop us in. Turn her around and drop us inside.”
I banged and scraped a couple of things along the way (mostly Pilot O’Brien).
“Ow, ooo, ouch—Warren, are you doing this on purpose?”
I shook my head.
After a little doing (and a lot more banging), we finally made it into the cargo bay.
0.2 . . .
It was going to be close. I slipped out of the jet pack and pulled O’Brien with me into the air lock. He helped as much as he could, which wasn’t a lot.
“Okay,” he said, “reach over to that AIRLOCK DEPRESS. Set it to 10.2 PSI.”
I did. We both looked down at his readout:
0.1 . . .
“Should I take off your helmet?” I asked.
“No, not yet.”
“But—”
“Not yet! Wait until the green light above the control comes on.”
I waited. Half the time watching for the green light, the other half watching his digital readout. It clicked to:
