Colonel Kuznekov took a wrench from the pack, very much unlike the crescent wrenches and open-end wrenches it replaced. The two adjustable jaws were motor driven and could be adjusted either to open or close, or to stop at an exact preset measurement on the scale.
“What are you going to do with that?” Patrick asked.
“It will be obvious in a moment. The torch now, if you please. I think the tanks would be best clipped to my back where they will not be in the way.”
The twin tanks were easily secured in place by Patrick, with the flexible hoses passed over the Colonel's shoulders to the pistol grip of the burning head he held in his hand. A large trigger turned on the gas flow and when he touched the ignition button on top the nicad batteries produced a fat spark that ignited the oxygen-acetylene mixture. A lever next to the button adjusted the mixture to a long needle of fire.
“Step one,” Kuznekov said. “Now, Patrick, if you will just hold this burning torch for a moment, if you please, pointed well away.”
The Colonel stopped speaking and began to inhale, slowly and deeply, filling his lungs with oxygen, hyperventilating, getting the maximum amount of oxygen into his bloodstream that was possible. Through his faceplate, Patrick could see him nod and smile when he had enough. With a swift motion he raised the power wrench close to his chest and clamped it over the umbilicals, actuating the mechanism at the same time. With geared-down strength the jaws closed, tighter and tighter, clamping down on the electrical and intercom cables, squashing flat the flexible hose of his air supply, until it was clamped shut completely.
“No air flow,” Kuznekov whispered, conserving his breath. “Torch.”
He took the burning torch from Patrick's hand. With a single pass he severed the umbilicals, leaving the stump with the attached wrench dangling from his suit.
Then he turned off the torch, waved his hand in farewell, and hauled himself over the bottom of Prometheus with a firm grip on a metal stanchion.
“What is happening?” The voice sounded in Patrick's earphones and he realized that the others could have no idea of what was going on.
“Colonel Kuznekov is going to cut the bolt. He clamped the wrench on his oxygen hose so it wouldn't leak into space, then cut the umbilicals with the torch.” He wasn't thinking clearly, Patrick realized. The severed umbilical was writhing in space like a garden hose. But instead of spouting water it was sending out a shower of frozen crystals.
“Nadya,” he called out. “Turn off the Colonel's air at the wall valve. It's just-being pumped into space.”
“It is off,” she said, and the shining spray slowed and died. “What is happening now?”
“He's halfway there. It's slow going through that maze of hardware without a safety line — watch out!”
Patrick shouted the last, forgetting that the Colonel was out of communication with his umbilicals severed. Kuznekov was fighting against time, taking chances that, as an experienced space walker, he would never normally consider. He must take them now. The last yards to the bolt were across a bare patch of metal. Up until now he had been moving steadily from handhold to handhold. Now he gauged the distance — and launched himself towards his objective, floating free in space.
But he could not see what Patrick could. The bulk of the tanks on his back was in line with one of the extended jacks, aiming directly for it. Patrick could only watch, horrified, as Kuznekov drifted forward, his hand extended to grab the length of the unexploded bolt.
His tanks struck first and he cart-wheeled in space, missing the bolt completely. The force of the impact swung his booted feet in the opposite direction, slamming them into the base of Prometheus. As they hit and rebounded the Colonel grasped at the bolt, but could not touch it.
He was drifting now, out from between the booster rocket and the satellite station, heading towards the depths of space, with nothing near enough to grab on to.
An inexperienced space walker would have kept on drifting, clutching vainly at the objects that passed just out of reach, but the Colonel knew better than this. He was already rotating slowly from the last impact. Bending over he drew his legs up to his chest in a single swift motion, increasing his speed of rotation. Just as a stone on a string will spin faster when the string is shortened, so did he rotate faster.
Then he straightened out to his full length, reached out — grabbed the angled brace of one of the jacks. There were worried questions in his ears and Patrick realized he had been watching the drama in space in silent horror.
“It's fine now. The Colonel has had difficulty reaching the bolt but he is almost to it.”
“He will be running out of air!” It was Gregor's voice, thick with fear.
“Not yet,” Patrick told him. “He's not only hyperventilated but he has oxygen in his suit. He'll make it.”
The Colonel was making it. With a final swing he reached the bolt and examined it for a long moment. Only then did he swing out as far as he could and attach a clip from his belt to the base of Prometheus. Then, carefully and methodically, he ignited the torch, adjusted the flame to his liking, reached out and put the flame to the length of steel.
“It's working, he's cutting it!” Patrick shouted, so loudly that his voice echoed inside the confines of the helmet and rang in his ears. “It's tough steel but it's glowing, I can see it, drops of metal coming off — almost through — THERE!”
The end was dramatic indeed. The pressure of all the jacks and hydraulic plungers was so great that, before the metal was cut through completely, the bolt snapped. Released at last the metal arms extended. In complete silence the two great metal shapes were pushed apart. Once started the motion continued, the core body drifting slowly away from Prometheus.
“It did it, it worked!” Patrick called out. “We have separation. And Kuznekov is all right, he's unclipping and starting back.”
He did not add that the Colonel was obviously in trouble. The minutes had ticked by, one by one, and his oxygen was finally exhausted. His movements were slow, clumsy. He pushed himself forward, grabbed the stub of the bolt and used this to accelerate himself towards Patrick. But his hand slipped as he fumbled his hold, drifting slowly. He shook his head, trying to drive away the blackness that pressed in on him. Then, with his last strength and consciousness he planted both feet on the bolt, waiting until he was lined up — then pressed down firmly.
Floating across the bottom of Prometheus, beside the bellshaped mouth of the atomic engine, straight towards Patrick. Limp now and barely conscious.
But not straight enough. His hand was out, hanging slackly, his arm kept in position by the pressurized fabric of the suit. Patrick seized the lip of metal with his left hand, pushed hard, straightened against the pull of the taut umbilicals, reaching out towards Kuznekov's hand drifting close.
Close, moving, but not close enough. He gasped with effort as he fought the tug of the umbilical cables, stretching, fingers extended as far as they could go.
Silently drifting, Kuznekov's hand went by scant inches from Patrick's groping fingers. In the full light of the sun Patrick could see the Colonel's closed eyes, his lined face calm and at ease.
The suited figure drifted by him, arm still extended as if in a last salute, into space and oblivion.