The scene was being relayed to Rhabwar and was causing increasing concern. Lieutenant Haslam said suddenly, “I can launch now, sir, and—”
“No,” the Captain said firmly. “If you touch down before it is safe to do so and the lander is blown over, nobody here will get out of this mess—”
He broke off because his voice had suddenly sounded very loud.
The wind had died.
“Open up,” Fletcher said. “Let’s get out of here.”
The dark-blue morning sky showed through the opening hatch and a negligible quantity of sand blew in. They maneuvered the litter and its trussed-up casualty through the opening and onto the upper surface of the hull.
“The lull may be temporary, sir,” Dodds warned. “There are still a few squalls running through your area.”
The rising sun was still hidden behind sand clouds, but there was more than enough light to see that the surface had been drastically altered overnight by the shifting of many sand drifts. From midships to stem the wreck was denuded of plating, but the skeleton had been filled out by a tightly packed tangle of thorns. The upper surface of the ship forward to the prow was intact, and the rocky shelf ahead was clear of thorns.
“One large squall will hit you in about twelve minutes,” Dodds added.
They jammed the litter against the open hatch and attached its magnetic grapples to the hull. Then they secured their suit safety lines to the massive hinge and threw themselves across the litter, hooking their fingers into the webbing around the casualty. It was just one more physical indignity for the alien captain, Conway thought, but by now the being was probably Past caring about such things.
Abruptly the sky was dark again and the wind and sand tore M them, threatening to lift them bodily off the hull. Conway desperately gripped the webbing as he felt the magnetic grap-begin to slide and the litter slue around. He wondered if the wind would blow him beyond the surrounding thorns were he to let go his grip and his safety line. But his fingers were locked in a cramp and he felt that his arms, like those of the alien Captain, were about to be separated from his torso. Then as suddenly as it had come the wind died and it was light again.
He saw that Murchison, Fletcher, and the patient were still safely attached to the litter. But he did not move. It grew brighter and he could feel the sun warming his side when the sand lashed at them again, accompanied by a high-pitched, screaming thunder.
“Extrovert!” Murchison yelled.
Conway looked up to see the lander hovering ahead of the ship and blasting sand in all directions with its thrusters. Haslam touched down on the shelf of rock which was clear of thorns, barely fifty meters from them.
There were no problems while moving the litter to the other ship, and no shortage of time to do it even though the thorns were already inching toward it. Before loading it on board, Conway removed the extra webbing and the makeshift eye protection from the patient and gave it a thorough examination. In spite of everything it had gone through it was alive and, in Conway’s opinion, very well.
“How about the others, Prilicla?” he asked.
“The temperatures of all of them have come down, friend Conway,” the empath replied. “They are radiating strong feelings of hunger, but not on the level of distress. Since the food supply on the wreck has been lost, and may have been contaminated anyway, they will have to wait until the hospital’s synthesizers provide some. Otherwise they are emoting feelings of confusion and loss.
“But they will feel much better,” Prilicla added, “when they rejoin their Captain.”
COMBINED OPERATION
They emerged into normal space at a point whose coordinates placed them far out on the galactic rim and where the brightest object to be seen was a nearby sun burning coldly against a faint powdering of stars. But as Conway stared through Control’s direct vision port, it became obvious that the emptiness was only apparent, because suddenly both the radar and long-range sensor displays were indicating two contacts, very close together and just under two thousand kilometers distant. For the next few minutes Conway expected to be ignored.
“Control, Power Room,” Captain Fletcher said briskly. “I Want maximum thrust in five minutes. Astrogator, give me the numbers to put us alongside that trace, and the ETA.”
Lieutenants Chen and Dodds, seven decks below and a few feet away respectively, acknowledged. Then Lieutenant Has-tam, from the Communications position, joined in.
“Sir,” he said without taking his attention from his displays, “the sensor readings suggest that the larger trace has the mass, ^nfiguration, and antennae deployment of a scoutship engaged °n survey duty. The other trace is currently unidentifiable, but relative positions might indicate a recent collision.”
“Very well,” the Captain said. He touched his transmit stud and, speaking slowly and distinctly, he went on, “This is the ambulance ship Rhabwar, operating out of Sector Twelve General Hospital, responding to your distress beacon released six plus hours ago. We will close with you in—”
“Fifty-three minutes,” Dodds supplied.
“—If you are able to communicate, please identify yourselves, specify the nature of your trouble, and list the type and number of casualties.”
In the supernumerary’s position Con way leaned forward intently, even though the difference of a few centimeters could not affect the clarity of any incoming message. But when the voice did come it sounded apologetic rather than distressed …
“The Monitor Corps scoutship Tyrell here, Major Nelson commanding,” it said. “It was our distress beacon, but we released it on behalf of the wreck you see beside us. Our medical officer isn’t sure, you understand, because its medical experience covers only three species, but it thinks that there may still be life on board.”
“Doctor—” the Captain began, looking across at Conway. But before he could go on, Haslam was reporting again.
“Sir! Another, no, two more traces. Similar mass and configuration as the distressed vessel. Also smaller, widely scattered pieces of metallic wreckage.”
“That’s the other reason why we released our beacon,” Nelson’s voice sounded from Tyrell. “We don’t have your long-range sensor equipment — our stuff is chiefly photooptical and computing gear associated with survey work — but this area seems to be littered with wreckage and, while I don’t entirely agree with my medic that some of it must contain survivors, the possibility does exist that—”
“You were quite right to call for help, Captain Nelson,” Conway said, breaking in. “We would much rather answer a dozen false alarms than risk missing one which might mean a rescue. Space accidents being what they are, most distress calls are answered too late in any case. However, Captain, as a matter of urgency we need the physiological classification of the wreck’s survivors and the nature and extent of their injuries so that we can begin making preparations for accommodating and treating them.
“I am Senior Physician Conway,” he enaea. may i apvan;to your medical officer?”
There was a long, hissing silence during which Haslam reported several more traces and added that, while the data were far from complete, the distribution of the wreckage was such that he was fairly certain that the accident had happened; to a very large ship which had been blown apart into uniform pieces, and that the wreckage alongside Tyrell and the — other similar pieces which were appearing all over his screens were lifeboats. Judging by the spread of the wreckage so far detected, the disaster had not been a recent occurrence.