“Oh, that’s being a really toughie,” approved Kyril. Turned to Harris: “Trying again?”
Harris shook head. “Uh-uh, I’m not betting against her again. I didn’t get where I am today by repeating mistakes…” Paused, looked around cockpit; then grinned ruefully. “Let me rephrase that.”
Too late by then for additional computer horseplay; time for bed. Time also to nibble at unsatisfyingly small store of high-protein, high-energy foods which, together with Tang (ick), comprised total nutrient inventory.
Then time to perform other necessary function — truly distasteful business: God obviously had gravity in mind when designed Man’s bowels.
(And have I mentioned? Tidy, odor-free, NASA-designed unisex waste-collection system deemed excess weight; removal, viewed with cold practicality, no more than passing annoyance for those involved — inconvenience over in few days anyway. Meanwhile, am paying price for bladder-dumping logistics less conveniently arranged than males’: Wearing my old friend, Foley catheter. Again. For “rest of my life.” Whee.)
Close of long, exciting day. Experienced no trouble going straight to sleep; tied myself down with blanket, muttered posthypnotic trigger phrase, dropped right off.
Woke in middle of night just long enough to realize: Adults’ slapstick enthusiasm, while surely mutually therapeutic, intended primarily for my benefit; Harris, Kyril spending all that energy to keep me from getting depressed. Discovery gave me warm, cozy, “loved” feeling, even though neither in hugging range at moment. Good boys, I thought drowsily; good stock — hoped passed on lots of genes while had chance, before getting mixed up in this. Knew Harris had three grown daughters; didn’t know about Kyril.
Snickered sleepily to self: If only little bit older, would see to it they both died smiling.
And resolved to devote equal energy to keeping them cheered up as welclass="underline" Who knows — might set up loop effect, positive feedback, mutual reinforcement. Be good for all of us.
Second day much like first, but slept later.
Earth visibly smaller; still heartstoppingly beautiful.
Harris, Kyril juiced up orbital-mechanics game as promised. Took me bulk of morning to score first hit. But success did me no good; once I got hang of it, they turned up wick still further by equipping target with antiantisatellite-missile missiles, plus dodging ability. Didn’t score again that day.
But did notice C-rations even less filling.
And some things do not improve with practice: Found self hoping Heaven boasts gravity, sit-down commodes.
Third day repeat of second.
Crew’s spirits held up well.
Scored intermittently during morning on orbital-mechanics game; didn’t miss once during early afternoon, so boys put heads together to complicate things further. Wouldn’t say what had in mind. Could hardly wait; wasn’t video-game addict before, but this was challenging.
Hunger on way to becoming serious annoyance. (And became necessary to watch boys carefully to verify eating own rightful portions; both had this sweetly distressing tendency to want to treat me as Damsel In Distress. Caught them working shell-game variant to see I got lion’s share.)
Still hated lack of toilet facilities; though output dwindling in proportion to intake — plus C-rations probably low on residue.
Nathan Hale arrived at rendezvous point on fourth day at 4:57 A. M. (Pacific Time Zone), just seven hours before bomb scheduled to start down, which meant up at 3:30 (again!). But did get to eat up bulk of remaining C-rations on waking (“Eat, drink, be merry, for tomorrow…” etc.).
Warming up ship’s systems, preparing for OMS burn to circularize orbit, took about an hour. OMS burn short, sweet; start, stop, both on money.
Harris looked up as OMS shut down. Glared out windshield, face suddenly hard. “All right, let’s find the bastard,” he grated.
Activated pulse radar. Antenna covered 90-degree cone straight ahead, centered on ship’s axis. Screen lit, remained blank.
Harris rotated ship on RCS thrusters to bring new section of sky into focus. Radar pulsed — and bingo!
Harris took careful range, bearing readings. Recorded figures, shut off radar with emphatic snap.
Smile wreathed face as unstrapped, pushed away from controls. “If you’ve got to do it for the last time,” he breathed, “it sure feels good to do it right! We’re just six miles behind it. Our orbit is so nearly identical that I can’t read the difference. We’re well within MMU range. Let’s go get that mother before something goes wrong.”
Kyril unstrapped, drifted free. “Is it visible from here?” he asked.
Harris unshipped expedition’s sole pair of binoculars, pulled himself to windshield, peered in appropriate direction. “Yes, it’s clearly visible through these,” he replied. “Very low albedo; must be almost jet black. Wonder if the color’s paint or that new material. Ominous-looking beast…”
Unstrapped myself at that point. Started to push gently away from seat; changed mind, but hand slipped — found self hanging immobile, out of reach of everything. Smiled as realized had just committed science fiction’s favorite neophyte’s standard error. Glanced up to let boys tease me about it. And…
Blood froze in veins.
Suddenly everything happening in slow motion.
Eyes focused on Kyril, just drifting past, knife in hand.
Was perhaps two-tenths of second during which could have latched on, torn into him with everything have ever learned about fighting; ample time for even modestly-skilled karate student to save day…
But couldn’t move! Could only hang there, mouth open, futilely trying to draw breath, scream warning, as reflexes warred within body.
Had been drilling for weeks with modified kata, sparring routine, working to eliminate lethal responses. But my system acquired intact from Teacher: his own — balanced, efficient; painstakingly developed by generations of greatest Masters over centuries; weaknesses long since discovered, rooted out. Now learned penalty for tampering…
Conflicting responses held me immobile during fraction of second it took Kyril to glide out of reach, plunge weapon under Harris’s left scapula. Commander went limp so quickly, doubt even felt it.
Then managed scream: “Kyril — NO…!”
Russian turned quickly, bloody knife still in hand; motion sent tiny quivering scarlet globules drifting across cabin to squish wetly against bulkhead.
Our eyes met; his contained wild look. No more than six feet separated us. Kyril firmly anchored to command seat with empty hand, both legs; poised to spring. I hung midair, out of reach of every handhold, turning almost imperceptibly about longitudinal axis — already sideways to him; soon would be completely backward to expected attack. Flailed arms, legs, trying to check, reverse spin — added tumble component instead.
Tactical situation growing less promising by the moment.
On point of triggering hysterical strength, turning job over to combat computer with instructions to give it best shot once Kyril within reach, when sanity returned to Russian’s eyes. He glanced at knife, shuddered, flung it from him.
Felt surge of relief. But didn’t lower guard.
Kyril smiled ruefully at me; then looked away quickly, shook head as if in pain. Shocked to realize sparkling beads drifting outward tears. More where those came from; Kyril dabbed at them absently. “Your General Sherman was right, Candy.” He sighed. “ ‘War is hell.’ I hated doing that.”