“I knew it,” Ely said, and sighed. “Back to the salt mine.”
“They think it will all work out well,” Nadya told them. “They're sure that the eccentric thrust can be compensated for. And that there will be enough thrust to lift us out of this orbit. But firing must begin as soon as possible.”
“You can bet your sweet bippy on that,” Ely said, warmly.
“Mission Control has worked out a program of step-by-step procedures that are to be done, and they'll relay it one item at a time. They ask if two people can space walk at the same time. They know we only have one operational umbilical.”
“The answer is yes,” Patrick said. “I'm going to break out one of the Astronaut Maneuvering Units from the cargo hold. Ely, suit up and stay on the flight cabin umbilical until I get back. Then you can use the long umbilicals and I'll fly the AMU. It's going to work.”
“It better,” Ely said. “Let's get suited up. Coretta darling, let me have some of those pills before we tackle this last one.”
“Of course. How about you, Nadya?”
She started to shake her head no, then stopped. “Normally, I do not like stimulants, but I feel this situation is very different.”
“About as different as they come, dooshenka,” Ely said. “Join the junky brigade.”
“You will seal the hatch again?” Gregor asked. “Seal us in once more?”
“I'm sorry,” Patrick said, hearing the fear in the man's voice, but unable to help him any more. “This should be our last space walk. So let's get it over with.”
“I could wear my suit as well,” Gregor said. “I could help.”
“He could do something, couldn't he?” Coretta asked, trying with her tones to tell Patrick how she felt. As a doctor she was well aware of Gregor's borderline state. Patrick shook his head no.
“Sorry. I don't want to have to evacuate the entire ship — and there is just no room for anyone else in the flight cabin. And really no need for anyone. Nadya will relay instructions to Ely and me — and we'll do the work. We'll be as quick as we can.”
Then they were suited up and out of the hatch. Coretta and Gregor looked up as the hatch closed and the wheel spun and locked it. Soon after the red light came on beside it showing that the air was gone on the other side.
Coretta turned around to find that Gregor was sitting, hunched over, his arms clasped before him and his head bent. Of course he couldn't sit, but was floating a few feet above his couch.
“Would you like something to eat, Gregor?” she asked, but received no answer. “There are some nice things here. I must say you Russians do things with your space food that we would never consider. Look at this — caviar! This little jar is easily twenty-five dollars on Earth, and here we are with a dozen or more. It's worth going into space for this.”
“Nothing is worth it. It is too terrible.” You did not need to be a doctor to hear the terror in his voice.
“Well, it hasn't really been exactly a pleasure trip so far. But do have some of this, I've opened it.”
“No, nothing. I shall never eat again, for life is at an end.”
He was raising his voice to shout above the sound from the wall speaker, hooked into the radio circuit and repeating the instructions from Mission Control about the spacewalk. She turned it off, it was too distracting and too much of a reminder of their plight. On impulse Coretta turned to the music bands, flipping through them until she found a pleasant piano concerto, Rachmaninoff it sounded like. In one of the cabinets a microminiaturized tape player ran continuously, producing six channels of music that could be tapped at will. The clear piano notes and the warm sound of the strings filled the compartment.
“It should not have ended like this,” Gregor said. “Too many mistakes have been made, too much was rushed. We were pushed into space too quickly, more care should have been taken.”
“Can't cry over spilt milk, Gregor,” Coretta said. “This caviar is delicious. Too bad there's no champagne to go with it. Hey, wait a minute. I have some two-hundred proof surgical alcohol in there. Cut that in half with water and you have one-hundred proof vodka. How about that, tovarich, does a shot of vodka sound interesting?”
“There were mistakes, and they rushed too fast and we are going to die.”
Gregor was pounding his fists together. He had not heard her. He needed something a lot stronger than the vodka. Coretta looked into the medicine cabinet, then back at the distraught Russian. There seemed to be no effect left of the sleeping pills she had given him, which should have been strong enough to put him under for hours. Could she get him to take any more? Unlikely, he seemed unaware of her, uncaring. He had deteriorated very rapidly.
She opened a metal box and removed, the pressure hypodermic, then rooted out a plastic bottle of noctex. Enough of this would put an elephant to sleep. And the advantage of the pressure hypo was that you didn't have to have a needle to break the skin. Just press the device against the body anywhere and a blast of high pressure air sent the droplets of chemical right through the skin. She would have to put the big Russian under whether he liked it or not. A good shot to keep him down until the danger was past. Or all over — but she wasn't going to think about that. He was a patient and she had to do her best for him. Very quietly she closed the locker and held the silver bulk of the hypodermic behind her leg. Then pushed off towards Gregor. He had his back turned, his head lowered, was unaware of her. The back of his neck with the curly blond hairs was the right spot. Just place and press. She floated close, raising the hypodermic.
“It is a crime what they are doing to us!” Gregor shouted, straightening, his legs banging against the couch — just as Coretta pushed the hypodermic at him.
The nozzle slammed into his shoulder, jarring it, sending a gust of droplets past his face.
“What is this?” he roared, seeing the apparatus extended like a gun towards his head. “You are trying to kill me! You cannot do that!”
He lashed out with his hand, slapping the hypodermic from her grasp, sending it hurtling across the compartment to crash into the wall, the force of his blow sending them both tumbling and turning. They collided and he struck again — this time at Coretta.
“You want to kill me!”
The slap was clumsy, the reaction of his movement spinning him about even as he struck. A fist fight would be impossible in free fall. But the flat of his palm struck her forehead and his wedding ring gashed her skin; small droplets of blood formed in the wound. The sight of the blood angered him even more and he lashed out again, but with little effect.
His eyes were blank, his temper overwhelming. He clutched madly at the fabric of Coretta's jumpsuit to pull her closer, punching with his free hand, clumsy blows that she twisted away from.
“Gregor, stop it,” she shouted. “Stop it, please!”
They drifted and spun, bouncing from the couches, drifting towards the wall, their insane ballet in space accompanied by the soaring music of the concerto. Gregor was panting now with the effort, still wild with fear and anger. To avoid his blows Coretta pulled him close to her, put her arms around his body and buried her head in his chest so he could not strike her face.
His anger spluttered out. He sobbed deeply and placed his hands over his eyes.
“My God, what am I doing. . I did not know. . There is blood on your face. I did that.”
“It's not important, it's all over now.”
“No, I'm so sorry. Very sorry. I ask you to forgive me. I have hurt you, I have broken bones.”
“No, nothing, really.”
Gregor was distraught now, his anger forgotten, running his hands down her arms, holding them, as though expecting to find the bones broken there. Pulling her to him, wrapping her in his arms.