“My congratulations to your chef, Sir Richard,” Müller said, patting his great midriff affectionately like a pet dog.
There was more light talk until eventually one of them looked at his watch. Chairs were pushed back and there was much handclasping and many guttural goodbyes. Muller waited until he was leaving to speak the few hoped-for words. He was obviously a believer in good curtain lines.
“We shall recommend the contract on the terms discussed, Sir Richard. I hope it will be only the beginning of a long and successful relationship.”
“Thank you, thank you very much.”
Their car would be waiting, and that would be that. He ground his cigar out in the ashtray and tried not to remember the trayload of papers in his office. They would have to tackled now, like it or not, if he were to have any chance of getting home before midnight.
The shortest way back to the executive offices was through the canteen and Sir Richard pushed his way through the swing door. He was preoccupied and would have gone straight through if the voices hadn't caught his attention. There were a number of workers here, it was already late enough for the afternoon tea break, and a group of them seemed agitated about something. Not a wildcat strike, he prayed. Some of them were reading newspapers, two and three at a time looking over one another's shoulders. He recognized one of the men, one of the older employees who had come over from the original works.
“Henry, what's happening?”
Henry Lewis looked up and nodded, passing over his own paper.
“Look at that, sir, enough to curl your hair it is. Just like the war all over again.”
SATELLITE BOMB SCARE. Sir Richard scanned the piece quickly.
“Like a flying bomb,” Henry said. “Hiroshima all over again. Look at this diagram on the next page, look where the bloody bull's-eye is.”
A drawing of Great Britain with a dotted line bisecting it, the satellite's track. To emphasize the peril the artist had drawn a great bull's-eye on the center of England and, completely by chance, the center of the bull was over (Tottenham New Town.
“I wouldn't be too concerned if I were you,” Sir Richard said, folding the paper calmly and handing it back. “I think there is more imaginative journalism in this than rational scientific fact. Pure guesswork.”
18
GET 03:25
Colonel Kuznekov's words echoed inside the helmets of the other two pressure suits, as well as from the wall-mounted speaker in the new compartment. They answered with silence for no one could think of a thing to say. It was Nadya who spoke first, relaying, in a professional, emotionless voice, a message from Mission Control.
“Major Winter, Mission Control wants you to come in.”
“Tell them to go to hell.”
“Hello Mission Control, this is Prometheus. Major Winter cannot speak to you at this moment. Yes, that's right, he's helping Colonel Kuznekov in a survey of the damage. Roger, he will be with you as soon as he can.”
“What did he want?” Patrick asked.
“More radio contact, and could you rig one of the TV cameras so they could observe us for general broadcast.”
“Negative. No circuses for the folks back home, not just now. Kuznekov, stay where you are, I'm coming out to see for myself.”
“Right, Patrick. And bring the oxyacetylene torch with you and the tool pack. I think I know how to cut that bolt.”
“Roger. Here I come.”
Patrick clipped the tools and the torch behind him and drew himself through the open doorway, then snapped a clip on the handhold outside. After that, carefully, he pulled all of the floating loops of his umbilicals through the doorway until they hung free, writhing slowly in space. Only then did he unclip and work his way back along the length of Prometheus, stopping every few feet to check the trailing umbilicals to be sure they were not getting tangled or caught. The bulky tool pack and torch on his back were weightless in free fall. When he had almost reached the end of the umbilicals Kuznekov reached back and seized his hand, pulling him the rest of the way.
“There,” Kuznekov said. “You will see our problem.”
A circle of light appeared, gliding first across the smooth surface of the metal then over the nuclear motor and the angular forms of the pistons that should have pushed the two spaceships apart. The nearest ones were extended all the way, a gap showing between their ends and the base of Prometheus. But there, on the far side, was a jumble of twisted metal, half extended pistons and the intact form of a thick steel rod. Kuznekov kept the light on it.
“Exploding bolt,” he said. “Unexploded. An American bolt I am unhappy to report.”
“And those supports and pistons are Soviet,” Patrick said in a weary voice. “The interface between the two techniques, the weak spot where one system meets the other. Well, we were warned. Not that it makes much difference now. But — that bolt's at least five meters away. We can't possibly reach it.”
“Perhaps we can rig a pole and attach the torch to the end?”
“We've nothing like that on board, we'd have to improvise. What would be strong enough? And we would have to light the torch here and work it over there while it was burning. Right between all that piping and the guts of the atomic engine. If that's injured there goes the entire ball game.”
“There it goes indeed,” the Colonel said, snapping open the latches on the tool pack. Inside, held in clips, were the tools specially designed to work in the cold and vacuum of space, to be operated by clumsy gloved hands. He drew out the torch. “The very thoughts you have outlined crossed my mind. The only way to cut that bolt is for someone to go over there and cut that bolt.”
“We'll have to unship one of the AMUs.”
“No time for that, you said so yourself. So if you'll aid me
I'll go over there and cut it. First the lighter, to be sure the torch is operating. Wonderful, I turn it off…”
“Colonel Kuznekov, what are you talking about? Your umbilical won't reach over there.”
“Obviously. So I breathe in a good deal of air, disconnect it, do the job and return. I can hold my breath three, maybe four minutes. It should be enough. If I black out I count upon you to reconnect my oxygen in time.”
“Stop him!”
“He can't, no…”
The intercom roared with the cries of many voices. “Silence!” Patrick shouted. “If you have anything to say speak up by turn. Nadya.”
“I… nothing. You are the commander, you must decide. The bolt must be cut.”
“Coretta, Ely? Anyone else?”
It took a moment for anyone to speak, then Ely's voice came over. “There's nothing to say, I guess. Down here, we're just passengers. But isn't there any other way?”
“Negative,” Kuznekov said brusquely. “Now we must begin. 'There's no time to waste.”
“Agreed,” Patrick said. “The first problem's going to be how to disconnect your suit from the umbilicals without your losing all your oxygen. If we just unplug it goes whoosh.”
“I have concerned myself over that too and think I see an answer.”
The Colonel opened the tool pack and reached in. All of the devices bore little resemblance to their Earthly counterparts because of the unusual conditions of working in space. Small tools could not be held easily in the thick gloves, nor could fine adjustments be made on them by hand. Nor, when tools were being used, could gravity be counted upon for help. We do not think of gravity until it is not there. On Earth it is a simple thing to put a wrench over the head of a bolt, to brace and push and turn it. Not so in space, in free fall. Without gravity to act as an anchor Newton's third law comes into its own. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. If the bit of a power drill goes in one direction, whoever is holding the drill rotates in the other. Therefore all the tools for use in space were power-operated from built-in nicad batteries. Internal flywheels spun in one direction to provide torque for tools rotating in the opposite direction. Adjustments were made by moving a sizeable lever, actuating a motor to make the adjustment.