“In about fifteen minutes,” she said, “we’ll be within your transmission range. You’ll be able to talk to us.”
Claymoor nodded approvingly. “If I ever get in trouble,” he said, “I hope you’re with the rescue party.”
She smiled with all due modesty.
“You could have killed yourself out there.”
“I’m responsible for him.”
“Only up to a point.” He tilted his head, appraising her. “Anybody ever try that before? Staying outside during a jump?”
Brownstein looked back over his shoulder. “Nobody else that crazy,” he said.
“And I didn’t get any pictures.”
“Sure you did,” said Hutch.
“Not of you during the jump.” His eyes narrowed. “You know, I’ll bet if we check the hull imagers, we might find something.”
“Henry,” she said, “you pulled my rear end out of the fire out there, and I wouldn’t want you to think I’m not grateful.”
“But…?”
“But you’re probably right, and I’m sure there is a visual record of me throwing up and all the rest of it.”
“It’s great stuff, Hutch. Nobody expects you to maintain appropriate decorum in that kind of situation.”
“I’m not talking about decorum. I’m talking about how I looked. I don’t want the world to see me like that and I’d appreciate—” She stopped dead, listening. The gee-forces were gone.
“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.
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.