Metal whiffed into space. Underloaded, the nuclear system howled its anger. Echoes banged between shivering decks.
уCut!ф cried Nakamura. His hand slapped the pilotтs master switch.
THE silence that fell, and the no-weight, were like death.
Someoneтs voice gabbled from the observation deck.
Automatically, Nakamura chopped that interference out of the
intercom circuit. уEngineer Sverdlov,ф he called. уWhat happened? Do you know what is wrong?ф
уNo. No.ф A groan. But at least the man lived. уSomehow the the ion streams . . . seem to have . . . gotten diverted.
The focusing fields went awry. The blast struck the ringsўbut it couldnтt happen!ф
Nakamura hung onto his harness with all ten fingers. I will not scream, he shouted. I will not scream.
уThe ╬caster web seems to be gone, too,ф said a rusty machine using his throat. His brotherтs dead face swam among the stars, just outside the turret, and mouthed at him.
уAye.ф Sverdlov must be hunched over his own viewscreens. After a while that tingled, he said harshly: уNot yet beyond repair. All ships carry a few replacement parts, in case of meteors orўWe can repair the web and transmit ourselves out of here.ф
уHow long to do that job? Quickly!ф
уHow should I know?ф A dragon snarl. Then: уIтd have to go out and take a closer look. The damaged sections will have to be cut away. Itтll probably be necessary to machine some fittings. With luck, we can do it in several hours.ф
Nakamura paused. He worked his hands together, strength opposing strength; he drew slow breaths, rolled his head to loosen the neck muscles, finally closed his eyes and contemplated peace for as long as needful. And a measure of peace came. The death of this little ego was not so terrible after all, provided said ego refrained from wishing to hold Baby-san in its arms just one more time.
Almost absently, he punched the keys of the general computer. It was no surprise to see his guess verified.
уAre you there?ф called Sverdlov, as if across centuries. уAre you there, pilot?ф
уYes. I beg your pardon. Several hours to repair the web, did you say? By that time, drifting free, we will have crashed on the star.ф
уWhat? Butўф
уConsider its acceleration of us. And we still have inward radial velocity of our own. I think I can put us into an orbit before the whatever-it-is force has quite destroyed the accelerators. Yes.ф
уBut youтll burn them up! And the web! Weтll damage the web beyond repair!ф
уPerhaps something can be improvised, once we are in orbit. But if we continue simply falling, we are dead men.ф
уNo!ф Almost, Sverdlov shrieked. уListen, maybe we can repair the web in time. Maybe weтll only need a couple of hours for the job. Thereтs a chance. But caught in an orbit, with the web melted or vaporized . . . do you know how to build one from raw metal? I donтt!ф
уWe have a gravitics specialist aboard. If anyone can fashion us a new transmitter, he can.ф
уAnd if he canтt, weтre trapped out here! To starve! Better to crash and be done!ф
Nakamuraтs hands began to dance over the keyboard. He demanded data of the instruments, calculations of the computers, and nothing of the autopilot. For no machine could help steer a vessel whose thrust-engine was being unpredictably devoured. This would be a manual task.
уI am the captain,ф he said, as mildly as possible.
уNot any more!ф
Nakamura slapped his master switch. уYou have just been cut out of the control circuits,ф he said. уPlease remain at your post.ф He opened the intercom to the observation deck. уWill the two honorable scientists be so kind as to stop the engineer from interfering with the pilot?ф
VII.
FOR a moment, the rage in Chang Sverdlov was such that blackness flapped before his eyes.
When he regained himself, he found the viewscreens still painted with ruin. Starlight lay wan along the frail network of the transceiver web and the two sets of rings which it held together. At the far end the metal glowed red. A few globs of spattered stuff orbited like lunatic fireflies. Beyond the twisted burnt-off end of the system, light-years dropped away to the cold blue glitter of a thousand crowding stars. The dead sun was just discernible, a flattened darkness. It seemed to be swelling visibly. Whether that was a real effect or not, Sverdlov felt the dread of falling, the no-weight horrors, like a lump in his belly.
He hadnтt been afraid of null-gee since he was a child. In his cadet days, he had invented more pranks involving free fall than any two other boys. But he had never been cut off from home in this fashion. Krasna had never been more than an interplanetary flight or an interstellar Jump away.
And that cookbook pilot would starve out here to save his worthless ship?
Sverdlov unbuckled his harness. He kicked himself across the little control room, twisted among the pipes and wheels and dials of the fuel-feed section like a swimming fish, and came to the tool rack. He chose a long wrench and arrowed for the shaftway. His fury had chilled into resolution: I donтt want to kill him, but heтll have to be made to see reason. And quickly, or we really will crash!
He was rounding the transmitter chamber when deceleration resumed. He had been going up by the usual process, grab a rung ahead of you and whip your weightless body beyond. Suddenly two Terrestrial gravities snatched him.
He closed fingers about one of the bars. His left arm straightened, with a hundred and ninety kilos behind. The hand tore loose. He let go the wrench and caught with his right arm, jamming it between a rung and the shaft wall. The impact smashed across his biceps. Then his left hand clawed fast and he hung. He heard the wrench skid past the gyro housing, hit a straight dropoff, and clang on the after radiation shield.
Gasping, he found a lower rung with his feet and sagged for a minute. The right arm was numb, until the pain woke in it. He flexed the fingers. Nothing broken.
But he was supposed to be in harness. Nakamuraтs calculations might demand spurts of ten or fifteen gravities, if the accelerators could still put out that much. The fear of being smeared across a bulkhead jolted into Sverdlov. He scrambled over the rungs. It was nightmarishly like climbing through glue. After a thousand years he burst into the living quarters.
M ACLAREN sat up in one of the bunks. уNo further, please,ф he said.
The deceleration climbed a notch. His weight was iron on Sverdlovтs shoulders. He started back into the shaft. уNo!ф cried Ryerson. But it was Maclaren who flung off bunk harness
and climbed to the deck. The brown face gleamed wet, but Maclaren smiled and said: уDidnтt you heaj me?ф
Sverdlov grunted and re-entered the shaft, both feet on a rung. I can make it up to the bubble and get my hands on Nakamuraтs throat. Maclaren stood for a gauging instant, as Sverdlovтs foot crept toward the next rung. Finally the physicist added with a sneer in the tone: уWhen a technic says sit, you squat . . . colonial.ф
Sverdlov halted. уWhat was that?ф he asked slowly.
уI can haul you out of there if I must, you backwoods pig,ф said Maclaren, уbut Iтd rather you came to me.
Sverdlov wondered, with an odd quick sadness, why he responded. Did an Earthlingтs yap make so much difference? He decided that Maclaren would probably make good on that promise to follow him up the shaft, and under this weight a fight on the rungs could kill them both. ThereforeўSverdlovтs brain seemed as heavy as his bones. He climbed back and stood slumping on the observation deck. уWell?ф he said.
Maclaren folded his arms. уBetter get iri,to a bunk,ф he advised.
