of occasional flashes of arrogance. It might have been that he tried too hard to live up to his image of what a starship captain should be. He talked as if he, Marcel, and Beekman operated on a higher plane than everyone else. He was quick to criticize, quick to suggest that the mission would have more chance of success if only they had more people on board like themselves.
He took aim particularly at the volunteers. They were amateurs. How could they be expected to get things right?
But the amateurs, Marcel pointed out several times, had so far done quite well.
In the short time he'd been on the Evening Star, Marcel had concluded that Nicholson had never learned the difference between maintaining distance between himself and his officers, and becoming aloof. The captain looked like a lonely man, and probably had no friend anywhere on the vessel.
Beekman and one of his physicists were huddled in a corner. Beekman had led the team that had analyzed course, velocity, and aspect of the Alpha shaft as it came free of the assembly. He and Drum-mond had calculated what was needed to turn it around and arrange for it to show up with the appropriate alignment tomorrow morning at the designated spot at the correct time on Deepsix.
There were a dozen or so visitors on the bridge, mostly overweight middle-aged couples talking about dinner or the evening's presentation in the Star Theater, which was to be a live production of Barry English's Indigo. Marcel had suggested canceling, because they expected to be making course adjustments through the evening, but Nicholson was afraid someone might be alarmed, or displeased, or resentful. The ship's movements were expected to be nominal. And, of course, everything would be known well in advance.
Beekman finished his conversation, excused himself, and came over. "We're in business," he said. "Everything's falling into place."
"Good." Marcel pushed away from the console while Beekman took a seat. "You and your people have been outstanding, Gunther."
"Thanks. We were concerned that the rotation would put too much stress on the shaft. That it would break somewhere. Or that the welds wouldn't hold. But we seem to have gotten through okay. I do believe you might actually pull it off."
"We might, Gunny. Or maybe you will. You and John and that army of part-time welders. Who'd've believed it?"
"Well, let's parcel out the credit when we have them home. There'll be a course adjustment in nine minutes. It'll be very slight. Nicholson knows."
"You've made my day, Gunny."
"You don't look happy. What's wrong, Marcel? The elevator thing?"
"Yes. Right now, it's scary."
"It'll be all right. They've got Kellie to help them. Are we talking to them yet?"
"No. They're still out."
The lander moved into position immediately in front of the elevator. Rain beat down on it, and lightning flared and boomed around them. Kellie, in the pilot's seat, was also fighting heavy winds along the face of the cliff.
"We'll have to make this fast, Hutch," she said. "I don't know how long I can stay here." She was referring to the power levels needed to sustain hover mode.
"Okay," Hutch said.
"Something else. The elevators are inside a gridwork."
"We know."
"Okay. Then you also know it's a crosshatch of beams, supports, and plates. That's what's holding you up. There must be tracks in there, and the elevators run up and down the tracks. Everything's old and jammed up. The metal's got to be warped. So the elevator can't ride freely."
"What are you trying to tell us, Kellie?"
"There's a clean break about fifty meters down. You get down there, and it just opens out into the great beyond. Bye-bye baby."
"All right. It feels pretty stable now. Let's go."
"Who's first?"
"Randy."
Nightingale looked at her, almost pleading. His face was ashen.
What did he want her to do? Leave him there?
The lander eased down until it lined lip directly with the elevator. Kellie opened the hatch and MacAllister showed them a line. "It's tied to the seat anchor, Randy," he said.
Nightingale nodded anxiously. "Okay."
MacAllister stared at Hutch, across a space of only a few meters.
He looked scared, too, but he was trying to appear nonchalant. How about that? The guy was a trooper after all.
The lander rose and fell, caught in an updraft. It rolled toward the elevator, then drifted away. "Not too close," Hutch said.
"Lot of wind here." Kellie's voice in her earphones.
Mac coiled the rope and measured the distance. "Ready, Hutch?"
"Yeah."
It spun toward her. She reached for it, watched it fall short. Mac reeled it in and tried again. Still short.
"You're too far out," he told Kellie.
Hutch heard a soft damn. The lander drew off, trailing line. When Mac was ready she started another approach.
The lander rose on a cushion of air. It dropped suddenly and to Hutch's horror MacAllister almost fell out. Nightingale stiffened. "Goddam downdrafts," said Kellie.
Mac retreated from the hatch. "You okay, Mac?" Hutch asked.
"You see what happened there?"
"I saw," Kellie told him. "Get a tether."
He was gone for a few moments. Then he emerged again wearing a line tied around his ample waist. The problem, of course, was that if he did fall out, Kellie couldn't leave the controls to haul him back in. She'd have to go all the way to the bottom to retrieve him.
"All right," said Mac, his voice surprisingly steady. "Let's try it again."
"This is a little delicate," said Kellie. "When you get the line, you're going to have to move fast." Hutch understood: If the wind caught the lander in the middle of the operation, it would rip the line, and whoever happened to be attached to it, out of the elevator.
Kellie made her approach. Hutch kept her eyes on Mac, watching him gauge his distance. The line was coiled in 'his right hand. The lander turned sideways, sank, wobbled, came back. It climbed, getting above her.
Mac saw his chance and the line came spinning in her direction. It unraveled and it was slick from the rain, but she scooped it out of the air and held on to it.
"Okay, Randy," she said. "Let's move it."
He shrank back, and she could see the struggle being fought behind his eyes.
"We don't have time to monkey around," she told him softly. "We stay here, we die."
"I know."
She waited for him.
"Hutch." Kellie's voice. "Let's go. I can't hold it here forever."
"We're working on it."
Nightingale stepped forward and closed his eyes. She coiled the line around his middle, crossed it under his armpits, and secured it in front. No way he could fall out of that. But he resisted as she tried to walk him to the opening.
"Hutch," he said, "I can't do this."
"It's okay, Randy. You're doing fine."
The elevator dropped again. Banged to a stop.
"Hutch!" said Kellie.
Nightingale got to the door and looked out at the lander. Rain blew in on him.
"Don't look down," Hutch said.
"Hurry it up," said Kellie.
"Hutch?"
"Yes, Randy?"
"If this doesn't work-"
"It'll work."
"If it doesn't-" He was reaching for the rim of the opening, found it, gripped it. The line stretching from him to the aircraft tightened and loosened as Kellie rode the drafts along the face of the precipice.
Hutch stepped up behind him and gently peeled his fingers away. "It always works," she told him. And pushed. He went out silently, without the scream she'd expected.