"Can you actuate your Carlotri transceiver?" demanded Grimes urgently.
"I . . . I think so . . ."
"Try. I'm going to switch to Mannschenn Drive. I'll home on your Carlotti."
"Mannschenn Drive?" asked Mavis, who had come up to Control.
"Yes. I want to be there in minutes, not days, and the Mannschenn Drive's the only way. I know it's risky, but . . ."
It was risky, to operate the Drive in a planetary system with its tangle of gravitational and magnetic fields, but it had to be done. Grimes jockeyed the free-falling Husky around on her gyroscope, lining her up on the faint signals from the survivor's suit radio. He started the Drive. There was the usual second or so of disorientation in space and time, and then, astern of them, Zetland assumed the appearance of a writhing, convoluted ball of luminous gas, and ahead and to starboard the sun became an iridescent spiral. Grimes paid no attention. He heard the faint voice from his own Carlotti speaker—"Carlotti on."
"Can you fix it so that it sends a continuous note? Turn up the gain . . ."
"Wilco."
A faint, continuous squeal came from the speaker.
Good. Grimes watched the quivering antenna of his Carlotti direction finder and communicator, the ellipsoid Mobius strip that was rotating slowly about its long axis. He restarted the inertial drive and then, with lateral thrust, using the antenna as a compass needle, headed the tug directly for the distant wreck. He pushed the inertial drive control to full ahead. The irregular throbbing shook the little ship. "Mavis," he said, "see if you can coax a few more revs out of the bone shaker . . ."
"I'll try," she told him, and was gone.
A fresh voice came from the speaker. It was Delamere. "Grimes. Captain Delamere calling ex-Commander Grimes. Do you read me?"
"Loud and clear, Delamere. Get off the air. I'm busy."
"Grimes, I order you to return at once. Ensign Davis, I authorize you to use force if necessary to overcome the mutineer and to assume command of Husky."
Grimes watched the antenna. It showed a continual drift of the target in a three o'clock direction. The wreck was in orbit, of course. He would have to allow for that. He did so, applying just the right amount of lateral thrust.
"Grimes! Ensign Davis! Do you hear me?"
Damn the man. So far the antenna was keeping lined up on the signal from the disabled Grebe, but with the base transmitting at full power it was liable to topple at any second.
"Grimes! Ensign Davis!"
"Grimes here. I can't give any orders, but I can appeal to those of you in the Carlotti room. This is a rescue operation. I'm homing on Grebe's Carlotti beacon. There's a woman out there, in the wreck, and she can't last much longer. Please get off the air, and stay off."
He was never to know what happened, but he thought he heard the sound of a scuffle. He thought he heard a voice—Maggie's voice—whisper, "Pull the fuse!"
He transferred his attention to the spherical tank of the mass proximity indicator. Yes, there it was, a tiny, glowing spark, barely visible. It was drifting fast in toward the center of the globe. Too fast? Not really. For a collision to occur, two vessels must occupy the same space at the same time, and as long as Husky's Mannschenn Drive was operating she was in a time of her own. But—talking of time—he didn't want to waste any. "Mavis," he said into the intercom mike, "when I put her on full astern I want full astern. No half measures."
"You'll get it," she assured him.
The spark was brighter now, crossing one concentric ring after another. Grimes adjusted the scale of the indicator, pushing the target back to the outernost circle. Still it drove in. Grimes adjusted the scale again, and again, and once more. Target spark merged with the bead of luminosity that represented Husky. For a microsecond there was an uncanny sensation of merging—not of ships, but of two personalities. "Mannschenn Drive—off!" snapped Grimes, executing his order. "Inertial drive—full astern!"
The ship shuddered, striving to tear herself apart. Colors sagged down the spectrum as the ever-precessing gyroscopes of the Mannschenn Drive were braked to a halt—but outside the viewports the stars, vibrating madly, still looked as they had done while the drive was in operation.
"Stop all!" muttered Grimes, jerking the lever to its central position.
And there, scant feet away, rotating slowly about some cockeyed axis, was the torn, buckled hull of the space yacht Grebe.
* * *
Mavis Davis came up to Control while Grimes was putting on his suit. She was bleeding slightly from an abrasion on her forehead. Like many another plain woman she was beautiful in conditions of emotional and physical stress. Before she lowered the helmet onto his shoulder she kissed him. It was a brief contact, but surprisingly warm. Grimes wished that it could have been longer.
She said, "Good-bye. It's been nice knowing you, John."
"What the hell's this, Mavis?"
She grinned lopsidedly. "I have my fey moments—especially when somebody is playing silly buggers with the Mannschenn Drive . . ." Then she was securing the helmet and further speech was impossible.
Grimes collected what tools he would require on his way down to the airlock. When the outer door opened he found that he could almost step across to Grebe. He pushed himself away from his own little ship, made contact with the hull of the other with the magnetic soles of his boots and palms of his gloves. He clambered over her like a clumsy, four-legged spider. He soon discovered that it would be impossible to open Grebe's airlock door. But it didn't matter. A few feet away from it was a hole large enough for him to crawl through.
He said into his helmet microphone, "I'm here."
The faint voice that replied, at long last, held an oddly familiar astringent quality. "And about time."
"I came as quickly as I could. Where are you?"
"In the control room."
Grimes made his way forward, using cutting torch and crowbar when he had to. When he found her she was in the pilot's chair, held there by the seat belt. Moving feebly, she contrived to swivel to look at him. Husky's floods were on, glaring through the viewports, but her face, inside the helmet, was in shadow.
She said, "I hate to have to admit it, but you're right, John."
"What do you mean?"
"What you always say when you deliver yourself of one of your diatribes against automation. 'Never put yourself at the mercy of a single fuse.' My meteor shield might as well have not been there, and by the time the alarm sounded it was too late to do anything . . ."
He was beside her now, holding her, cursing the heavy suits that were between them.
"Sonya, I've got to get you out of here. Aboard Husky." He fumbled with the strap that held her.
"Too . . . late." She coughed, and the sound of it, telling of fluid-filled lungs, was terrifying. "Too . . . late. I hung on as long . . . as I could. Start . . . Mannschenn Drive. Should be some . . . power . . . in batteries . . ."
"Sonya! I'm getting you out of here!"
"No. No! Start. . . Drive . . ."
But he persisted in trying to unstrap her. Summoning her last reserves of strength she pushed him away. He lost contact with the deck, drifted away from her. He clutched at something—a lever?—that moved in his hand.
He did not hear the Drive starting; there was no air in the ship to carry the sound. But he felt the vibration as its rotors stirred into life, was aware that the harsh light of Husky's floods had deepened from white to a sullen red. Around him, around Sonya, the universe lost its substance. But he was solid still, as she was, and her hand was firm in his.
And . . .
* * *
She was saying, "We found each other again. We found each other again . . ."
Grimes looked at her, looked at her a long time, dreadfully afraid that she would vanish. He held her hand tightly. Then, but cautiously, he stared around him at the temple. It seemed to have lost its alien magic. It was just a large, featureless room with the dimensions of a cube. On the floor, annoyingly o
ff center, was a block of black stone in the shape of a coffin.
He said, "That dream . . . If it was a dream . . ."
She said, "There is a fourth rate Survey Service Base on Zetland . . ."
He said, "The last I heard of Delamere he'd been kicked upstairs to become a deskbound commodore . . ."
She said, "Damn your silly dream. Forget about it."
"I'll try," he promised. And then, unbidden, familiar words formed themselves in his mind. He said them aloud:
"To sleep, perchance to dream . . .
Ay, there's the rub . . ."
Something about the emphasis he used made her ask, "What's the rub, John?"
"What is the dream? That or this?"
"What does it matter?" she asked practically. "We just make the best of what we've got." Then, as they walked out of the drab temple, "Damn! My ribs are still hurting!"
THE END
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Alternate Orbits Page 17
