The camera shows the negotiations at a fiery pitch. Canaan's moon is taking a pounding. Maybe staying out here would be smart.
In the grand view the situation represents a glorious milestone. We've stopped their inward charge at last. They'll have to commit an inordinate proportion of their power to follow through here.
Tannian's Festung Canaan will be a hard-shelled nut. Maybe hard enough to alter the momentum of the game.
Tannian has gotten his way at last.
Knowing I'm on the fringe of a desperate and historic battle isn't comforting. I can't get excited about sacrificing myself for the Inner Worlds.
A wise man once said it's hard to concentrate on draining the swamp when you're up to your ass in alligators.
Tannian will be a hero's hero. It won't matter if he wins or dies a martyr. He'll be immune to the darts of truth. What I write won't touch him. No one will care.
"Anything from Command?' the Old Man demands. There's been ample time for a response.
Throdahl raises a hand placatingly. He's listening to something. His expression sours.
"Commander... all they did was acknowledge receipt. No reply."
"Damn them." There's little heat in the Old Man's curse. He doesn't sound surprised. "Make for Rescue Alpha Niner Zero."
Thrust follows almost instantaneously, lasts only a few seconds. Westhause is taking the slow road. We don't dare leave too plain a neutrino trail.
Word filters through the ship. We'll have something to eat soon.
Eight hours gone. After one brief hyper translation, there've been but a few slight nudges with thrusters, sliding round asteroids. Now Westhause cuts loose a long burn. He has to reduce our inherent velocity.
The Commander tells me, "Keep a sharp watch for a flashing red-and-white light. We may not recognize the rock on radar."
"Range one hundred thousand, Commander," Throdahl says.
"Very well. How long, Mr. Westhause?"
"Two hours till my next burn, Commander. Maybe three altogether."
"Uhm. Proceed."
I'm salivating already. Damn, this sneaking is slow work.
Burn complete. Closing with the Rescue station. I catch occasional glimpses of its lights, activated by our signals. "Commander, that rock is tumbling."
"Damn." He leans over my shoulder. "So it is. Not too fast, though. Time it."
We ease closer. The asteroid isn't tumbling as fast as I thought. It has several lights. A
rotation takes about a minute. According to Berberian it's slightly over two hundred meters in distance. It's wobbling slightly as it rolls.
Closer still, I discover the reason for its odd behavior. "Range?" I demand.
"What?" Yanevich asks.
I have my magnification set at max. "How far to the damned asteroid?"
Yanevich snaps, "Berberian. Range?"
"Nine hundred thirty kilometers, sir."
The First Watch Officer moves round behind me. "What's the matter?"
"Something wrong." I tap a big lump as it rolls into view. Yanevich frowns thoughtfully. The Commander joins us. I ask, "Can we bounce a low-power beam off that?"
The Old Man says, "Berberian. Shift to pulse. Chief Can-zoneri. Link with radar. I want an albedo.
Mr. Westhause, dead stop if you please." He leaves us, monkeys into the inner circle.
We're three hundred kilometers closer before Westhause gets all weigh off. The men exchange tense glances. Fisherman asks, "What is it, sir?"
"Can't tell for sure. Look like there's a ship on the rock."
The Commander joins me. He says, "Radar albedo isn't distinct. A dead ship doesn't show much different from a nickle-iron asteroid." He stares into the screen. It shouts no answers. "Wish we had flares."
Yanevich says, "If they were going to shoot, we'd have heard from them by now."
"Maybe. Open the door." Standing in the hatchway to Weapons, he tells me, "Roll tapes."
A minute later Piniaz lays twenty seconds of low-wattage laser on the asteroid. "It's a ship," I tell Yanevich. "Not one of ours, either."
He leans over as I reverse the tape. "Not much of one."
It looks like an inverted china teacup, thirty to forty meters in diameter. The Commander rejoins us. He looks puzzled. "Never saw anything like it. Route it to Canzoneri. Chief! ID this bastard."
A minute passes. Canzoneri says. "That's an assault landing pod, Commander."
We exchange baffled looks. An assault pod? For landing troops during a planetary invasion?
"What's it doing here?" Yanevich murmurs. He turns to the Commander. "What'll we do?"
The Old Man checks Fisherman's screen and the display tank. "Throdahl. Anything from Command?"
"There's a lot of traffic, Commander, but nothing for us."
The Commander contacts Weapons. "Mr. Piniaz, put a hard beam into that lump. Mr. Westhause, be ready to haul ass."
Piniaz fires a few seconds later. Glowing fragments fly. Part of the pod turns cherry, then fades.
The lander doesn't respond.
Again we exchange glances. The Old Man says, 'Take her in easy, Mr. Westhause."
Two hours of increasing tension. Nothing from the pod or Rescue station. We're now twenty-five kilometers out. The pod is obviously damaged. Its underside is smashed. It came into the station hard. Canzoneri says the impact put the spin on the asteroid. But we still can't fathom what the pod was doing out here. It's a long way from Canaan.
Apparently the pod crew came for the same reason we did. Both sides use the other's Rescue facilities.
Westhause says he can match the rock's tumble. It'll be tricky work, though, till we can anchor the Climber somehow. I ask the Commander, "Why bother? Just suit across—at least till we know if it's worth our trouble."
He grunts, ambles off.
I look at Yanevich, at the Commander's back, at the First Watch Officer again. Yanevich shows me crossed fingers. He too sees the disintegration the Old Man is holding at bay.
I'm worried about the Commander. He's damned near the edge. He may go over if we fail here. He's taking our failures on his own shoulders, despite the fact that the mission's course has, largely, been beyond his control.
"Fifteen kilometers," Berberian says.
Rose and Throdahl are exchanging speculations on the treasures the Rescue station may contain. I hear something about nurses. Throdahl frequently interrupts himself to repeat something he has overheard on his radio.
The situation is obvious. The other firm is trying to kick hell out of Canaan and our bases. News from the larger moon is depressing. Enemy troops have reached its surface.
"Looks bad, sir," Chief Nicastro says. His face is pale, his voice a murmur. I can read his mind.
What point surviving the mission if he goes home to die in an invasion?
How are they doing, getting at Canaan itself? Seems there'd be vast areas where they could put down virtually unopposed. Where I came in, say. All they'd have to do is crack a gap in the orbital defenses.
"Ten kilometers," Berberian says.
The Commander asks the First Watch Officer, "Who do we have EVA qualified?"
"Have to check the personnel records, Commander." Yanevich slides up to the inner circle, talks to Canzoneri. "Commander? Mr. Bradley, Mr. Piniaz, Mr. Varese, Chief Nicastro, DeliaVecchia."
"Who's DellaVecchia?"
"That new Damage Control Third of Mr. Varese's."
"Who's got the most time?"
"Mr. Bradley and Chief Nicastro."
"The Chief hasn't been outside since I've known him."
"I'll go, Commander," Nicastro says. He draws a few surprised stares. The Chief volunteering?
Impossible.
"I don't want to send any more married men, Chief."