“Everything's under control, M5. Garber. Just give us a couple of minutes. We'd like you and the other people to clear the airlock. You can go back inside, if you like. But just clear the area, please.”
The hatch opened, and a transparent tube extended out into the vacuum.
Dot signaled for everyone to grab hold of the cable. Then they stepped out into the void.
The tube crossed the space between the ships and fastened onto the Intrepide's open airlock.
Several people, four, it looked like, in dark blue uniforms filed into the tube and started across. A couple of them looked toward the drifting women and waved. A minute later, they'd disappeared into the Intrepide.
“Hello,” Dot said. “This is Garber. Who are you guys?”
“Ms. Garber, this is CVY1411. Do you need assistance?”
“Only to get out of here.”
“How's your air supply?”
“We're in good shape. There are four of us.”
“Okay. We see you. There's a cargo hatch off to your left. It's opening now. Or it will be in just a minute. Can you get in on your own? Or do you require assistance?”
She looked at the three women. They were still celebrating. “Negative,” she said. “We can manage.”
“Very good. Come in through cargo. There'll be a blinking light. They'll be expecting you. And yell if you need anything.”
“Fourteen-eleven, I hate to ask this-”
“Go ahead, Ms. Garber. What's your problem?”
“What's the date?”
“Rimway calendar?”
“Yes.”
“It's 1501.”
She froze. Sixty-seven years. Somewhere, deep inside, she'd known that was what they would say, but she still couldn't accept it. Not really. She'd just come out here a few minutes ago.
There was more movement in the tube. More uniformed rescuers crossing into the Intrepide. Then a surge of people coming back. Filing into the Fleet vessel. Her vision blurred while she watched, and it had gotten hard to breathe. She told herself to calm down. She was okay. That was the critical part. Everybody was going to survive. If it was really true that almost seventy years had passed since she'd come out here, she'd deal with it.
Her head was spinning. Dot had always prided herself on being tough. On being able to make the hard decisions, and to live with the results. But this was too much.
A wave of darkness closed in.
She woke in the arms of a guy in a pressure suit. He was telling her to relax, nothing to worry about, he'd take care of everything. They were still outside, moving along the hull, past large black numbers, a four and a couple of ones. “Thanks,” she said. “I'm sorry I gave you so much trouble.”
“No trouble, Ms. Garber. Glad to help.”
“Where are-?”
“They're fine. Everybody's okay.”
Her rescuer identified himself as Emil Crider. He wore standard Fleet issue: Assuming rank insignia hadn't changed, he was a young lieutenant, solid, efficient, reassuring. Emil warned her about the gravity, and brought her in through the cargo doors. Lisa and Michelle were already there. They looked a bit lost. Several of the rescuers were with them. Rowena was led in moments later. She waved. And provoked another round of cheers.
Dot's weight flowed back. Emil closed the doors and started the pressurization process. They were in a storage area, filled with cabinets and casings and assorted electronic gear.
“When the green light comes on, Ms. Garber,” he said, “don't remove your suit or helmet. We'll be running a check before you get out of it.”
“Call me Dot” she said. “Why the medical check, Emil? I was only out there a few minutes.”
“Really?” He gave her a broad smile. “There's no problem, but we want to make sure your immune system isn't out of touch. And, where you're concerned, ours might be, too. Bear with us. It won't take long.”
Eventually, a row of green lamps, strung along the overhead, blinked on. Emil got out of his gear and looked back at her. He was average size, young, good-looking, sandy hair, sea blue eyes. A door opened, and several others came into the area. One of the newcomers knelt beside her. “Dr. Gibson, Dot,” he said. “How do you feel?”
“I'm okay.”
“Can you stand?”
Gravity was still at about one-third. Standard level in the void. “Yes, Doctor.” She started to get up. Emil made a move to help her, but Gibson waved him back.
“Still okay?” Gibson asked when she'd gotten to her feet.
“I'm good.”
The others were going through the same routine.
When they were all ready, they were led down a short passageway and up two decks. There they were separated, and Dot was taken into a room that looked like an infirmary. Except that it appeared to be airtight. A table supported some electronic equipment. A single chair had been placed at the table. “Okay, Dot,” the doctor said. “I'll be right over there.” He indicated an observation area behind a plate of glass. “Wait until I tell you. Then take off the suit, sit down, and wait for instructions. Okay?”
“Okay, Doctor.”
He went outside and pulled the door shut behind him. “All right. You can get out of that thing now.”
She removed the helmet and climbed out of the suit. Then she sat.
Dr. Gibson appeared in the observation area, joined by Emil. “Ms. Garber,” Gibson said, “you'll notice a cap on the device in front of you. I'd like you to remove the cap and breathe into the tube.”
About twenty of the Intrepide passengers were gathered in the mess hall, where sandwiches, fruit, and donuts had been laid out. More filed in every few minutes. Others connected with the rescue vessel-though only two wore Fleet uniforms-were wandering among the growing crowd, reassuring them, and apparently speaking to them in their own language. That surprised Dot since the information she'd had indicated we knew what the written language looked like but nobody knew what it sounded like. Then she remembered Cori and Sabol.
There really are miracles.
Rowena and Michelle came in, and they all embraced. They thanked her, then were quickly swept off by their fellow passengers. Lisa showed up minutes later, and there was another minor celebration.
When everybody from the Intrepide finally was present, a woman in a commander's uniform spoke to them, again in French, welcoming them formally to the Christopher Robin. She passed out guides, in French, of course, which laid out information on compartments and menus and code numbers to be used by anyone needing help.
Two women, dressed in jumpsuits, stood off to one side. They were considerably older than Dot, but were still on the right side of middle age. One of them caught her eye momentarily, and smiled.
Dot raised a hand in acknowledgment. Then Emil appeared beside her. “You okay?” he asked.
“I'm fine. What's going on? Are they trying to explain to us what's happened?”
He nodded.
Dot saw disbelief, anger, tears. The people from the Intrepide would never see their friends and relatives again.
Several became hysterical. Some stared out through the viewports at the stars as if confirmation lay in that direction. They embraced one another, pleaded with the uniformed officers, no doubt to tell them it was all a misbegotten joke. But they knew that it was true, that their rescuers were not kidding, were not lying, were not deranged. They had arrived in the far future.
Lisa was staring at Dot. Her teen eyes were wet, and she was trying not to break down. Had this really happened?
Dot walked over to her. Embraced her. “I'm sorry,” she said.
A French-speaking lieutenant commander, a man who'd trained more than a year specifically for this mission, told her later that the question most asked, after how did it happen, was this: Is there any way we can go home again? Are our homes still there?
They also, many of them, swore they'd never ride an interstellar again. Not ever.
Many of the passengers came over to thank Dot, to embrace her. One or two seemed to think it was her fault. And the Fleet people also took her aside and shook her hand. Several asked her to sign copies of the French guide.