The cabin was silent again; then Lona said, “Now we wait…”
… for death. Dar completed the sentence in his head. “What do we do with our minds?”
The silence became acutely uncomfortable.
Then Father Marco stirred. “I do know a little about meditation. Would anyone like a mantra?”
“Burro-boat FCC 651919 to distressed spacer. Respond, please.”
Dar sat bolt upright, staring at the first pair of eyes he saw—Lona’s, fortunately. “So soon? Where was he, just around the corner?”
“It’s been two hours…”
“Even so…”
“Burro-boat, this is distressed spacer,” Sam snapped into her pickup. “Can you rescue?”
“Distressed spacer, I can rescue and am in your vicinity, but need transmission to home on. Please continue transmission of carrier wave.”
“Burro-boat, will do. We await you anxiously.” Sam locked down the “transmit” button, but covered the pickup with her hand and swiveled to face the others. “It doesn’t have to be the Patrol, you know.”
“If it is, we’ll know in a minute.” Whitey gave her a dry smile. “As soon as they get a locus on us, they’ll blast us to vapor.”
Sam flinched, and whirled back to her console.
“No!” Lona snapped. “It might be legit—and if it’s not, I’d rather steam than starve, anyway!”
Sam hesitated, but she left the “transmit” button on.
“And it could be honest,” Father Marco pointed out. “The prospectors flit all over the belt in their burro-boats. Why shouldn’t there have been one two hours away?”
Lona’s eyes glazed. “Well, the probabilities …”
“Spare us,” Whitey said quickly. “Have you been praying for St. Vidicon’s help, Father?”
Father Marco squirmed. “It couldn’t hurt, could it?”
“Not at all. He might’ve stacked the deck in our favor.” Whitey craned his neck, staring out the porthole. “Dar, take the starboard view. What do you see?”
“Just asteroids… No, one of them’s getting bigger… There!”
There was a concerted rush to the starboard portholes.
“Is that a ship?” Dar gasped.
It was dingy gray, and it might’ve been a sphere once, but it was so pocked with crater dents that it looked just like any of the asteroids. Two paraboloid dishes sprouted from its top, one round for radio and microwave, the other elongated, for radar. Below them, the hull sloped down to two huge windows; the miners liked naked-eye backup for their scanners. Below them, the hull kept sloping until it reached the loading bay: two huge holes, housing solenoids, for small bits of ore; below it, a “mouth” for big chunks. Beneath a bulbous belly hung two pairs of pincers, one fore and one aft, for grappling onto small asteroids that were two big for loading. From the aft section sprouted a spray of antennae that set up a force-field to prevent rear-end collisions by small asteroids.
“It’s beautiful,” Sam breathed.
The burro-boat rotated, broadside-on to the Ray of Hope, and a small hatch opened in its side. A magnetic grapple shot out, trailing a line. It clanged onto their hull.
“Distressed spacer,” said the com console, “We are prepared for boarding.”
Sam dived for the console. “Acknowledge, burro-boat. We’ll just slide into our pressure suits, and be right over.”
Whitey swung out a section of the wall. “I hope they left the suits when they mothballed this thing… There they are!”
All five crowded around, feasting their eyes on their means of escape.
“Air?” Sam said doubtfully.
Dar snorted. “So hold your breath. It’s only a hundred yards!” He hauled down a suit and handed it to Sam. “Ladies first.”
“Male chauvinist! You go first!”
“All right, all right,” Dar grumbled, clambering into the stiff fabric. “Check my seals, will you? Y’ know, something bothers me.”
“You too, huh?” Whitey was sealing him in with a crisp, practiced touch. “You wouldn’t be wondering why we haven’t heard from the pilot?”
“Well, yes, now that you mention it. Or is it the custom here, to let the computers do the talking?”
“Definitely not,” Lona assured him, sealing Sam into her suit. “Of course, there might not be a pilot.”
“Could be—but not likely,” Whitey grunted. “Didn’t you hear the serial number? This is one of those new FCC brains—‘Faithful Cybernetic Companions,’ programmed for extreme loyalty. They’re not supposed to want to do anything without their owner’s express command.”
“I thought those were robot brains.” Father Marco frowned. “What’s it doing conning a ship?”
Whitey shrugged. “Can’t say, Father. I do know that every scrap of junk and every used Terran part finds its way to the asteroid belt sooner or later, to get the last erg of usage out of it… There!” He slapped Dar on the shoulder; it sent him spinning in the free-fall of the powerless ship. “Go out and conquer, young fella!”
“I thought I was going to be rescued,” Dar grumbled. “And why do I have to go alone?”
“Because a burro-boat’s lock is only big enough for one at a time.” Whitey all but kicked him into the Ray of Hope’s airlock. “Have a good trip—and try not to breathe!”
The door slammed behind him, and the other hatch was opening; and if he didn’t go out there and try to swim through vacuum to the burro-boat, he’d be killing his four friends, who couldn’t go into the airlock till he’d gone. He gulped down his panic and forced himself to step through.
He held onto the line with one hand, groping frantically at his waist for the suit’s anchoring cables. There! It was a snap-hook with a swivel. He pulled it out; a strong line unreeled from somewhere inside his suit. He snapped the hook onto the line. Catching the overhead line, he pulled himself back against the Ray of Hope’s side, bracing his feet and backing down into a crouch. Then he fixed his gaze on the burro-boat’s airlock, took a deep breath, and—jumped as hard as he could.
He went shooting out along the line like a housewife’s dry laundry in the first drops of rain. For a moment, he was tempted to try going faster by pulling himself hand-over-hand along the line; then he remembered that he was in vacuum, which meant no friction, but his gauntlets on the line would mean friction, and would probably slow him down as much as they speeded him up. So he hung on, arms outstretched in a swan dive—and began to enjoy it.
Then the burro-boat’s side shot up at him, and he grabbed frantically for the line, remembering that he might have lost weight, but he hadn’t lost mass—which meant inertia. If he didn’t brake, fast, the next friend down the line would have to scrape a nice, thin layer of Mandra off the burro-boat before he could get into the airlock. The scream of improvised brakes squealed all through his suit, while the burro-boat’s side kept rushing up at him, seeming to come faster and faster. Frantically, he doubled up, getting his feet and flexed knees between him and it…
Then he hit, with a jar that he swore knocked his teeth back into the gums. But, as he slowly straightened, he realized his joints were still working, and the stars that didn’t fade from his vision were really asteroids sweeping past. Somehow, he’d made it—and all in one piece! He breathed a brief, silent prayer of thanks and stepped gingerly through the hatch. When he was sure both of his feet were pressing down on solid metal, he let go of the line with one hand to grasp the rim of the hatchway; then he let go with the other, and pulled himself down into the nice, safe darkness of the interior. His elbow bumped a lever; irritated, he pushed it away—and the hatch swung shut behind him.