Commander Alexei Petrov scrambled into his pressure suit, twisted the helmet on its ring mounting, and drank in the sterile-tasting oxygen/nitrogen mixture. It lifted his heart, which was racing more rapidly now. Toolbox under one arm, he made his way clumsily to the airlock. The outer door was open. Strange. Gleb should have closed it behind him.
Commander Petrov poked his head into the cargo bay. He saw the satellite, whose purpose was unknown to him, still cradled in a restraining net of nylon filaments, like a mirrored ball in a spider's web. He saw also the shiny lumpish thing which clung to the control board like a half-melted ice cube.
But he did not see Oleg Gleb.
Perhaps Oleg was behind the satellite, just outside the range of his own vision. Yes, that must be it, Petrov told himself. Oleg is behind the satellite.
But a slight doubt flickered through Petrov's mind. He smelled, within the confines of his suit, a sudden rush of odor. A stale, sweaty odor. His visor began to steam. Petrov swore at his own infantile reaction to fear. There was nothing to be frightened of within the cargo bay. Just an unusual technical problem caused by a peculiar meteorite which must be magnetic because it had followed the shuttle through evasive maneuvers. Yes, that was it. The meteor was magnetic. That would explain everything-why it stuck to the control board and its strange effect on the Yuri Gagarin's complicated electronics.
But still Alexei Petrov could not will his booted feet to step over the threshold of the airlock.
He touched his throat mike to cover his indecision. "Oleg. I am here."
No answer.
"Oleg?" His voice was tighter now. Surely Oleg was behind the satellite. Oleg was playing a joke. Yes, that was it. A joke to relieve the tension.
Alexei Petrov laughed nervously.
"Very funny, Oleg. But enough. Show yourself. I have brought tools, and they are very heavy. Come help me." He added that last part because, like a child at the door of a supposedly haunted house, he was not going to enter the cargo bay alone. Oleg would have to show himself first, show that it was indeed safe to enter.
But Oleg did not show himself.
Finally Alexei Petrov steeled himself to cross the threshold. His boot bumped something on the floor. Commander Petrov looked down. It was then that he saw the liquid coating on the floor-the red liquid coating. There was no time for his conscious mind to register the meaning of that coating before he saw the object his boot had stubbed.
It was impossible to bend over in a spacesuit, but if one slowly scrunched down, one could lower his body into a half-crouch. Alexei Petrov did so, the hissing of his oxygen tanks filling his ears.
The object was a cube of varicolored material streaked with metallic silver, like the outer surface of his own cosmonaut suit. Carefully Petrov picked it up in his gloved hand. It was much, much heavier than it should have been. It was only slightly bigger than a child's building block.
Coming to his feet, Petrov held the cube up to his visor. He wiped at the visor to clear the condensation that obscured his vision. But of course it was his breath causing the misting, and it was no more possible to wipe the inside of the visor than it was to scratch his itchy nose.
The cube dripped. The liquid was red, like blood. But it was too pale for blood, too thin. It could not be blood, Petrov told himself. Yet the cube was spongy to his touch, like an organ. Petrov squeezed it and felt it give, but under the surface, his fingers encountered hardness.
On one side of the cube there was a peculiar indentation. As if a nut-and-bold assembly had been pressed into the cube. There were even the impressions of the bolt threads lining the indentation. Just like the bolts of the inner airlock's walls. The same size, too. Petrov experimentally pressed the cube to one of the protruding bolts. A perfect fit. Too perfect. Abruptly Alexei Petrov decided the cube bore further examination. In the safety of the control room. Oleg could wait.
Petrov went to the airlock door. But it refused to respond to the electronic controls. He tried manual. And as he tugged on the frozen lever, it became dark.
Alexei Petrov could not hear the closing of the airlock door leading to the cargo bay-not while sealed in a pressure suit with that damned oxygen hissing in his ears. But when he turned, he saw that he was locked into the airlock.
Oleg again.
"This is not humorous, Oleg," Alexei Petrov shouted into his helmet mike. "I order you to open the airlock and show yourself. Do you hear me, Oleg? Cosmonaut Gleb, your superior has given you a direct order. You will obey this at once. At once, do you hear?"
But Cosmonaut Oleg Gleb still did not answer. "Damn!" Alexei Petrov swore. He threw the cube of unidentifiable matter at the stubborn airlock door. It bounced back like a rubber ball. Reflexively he caught it. A piece of the silver streaking came off, revealing something familiar embedded in the whitish surface beneath. It was writing. No, not writing, Petrov saw as he looked closer. Embroidery. Very, very tiny embroidery. The stitching spelled out a single word: Gleb.
Commander Alexei Petrov threw up. A splash of vomit coated the inside of his visor and ran hotly down his chest. He tried to wipe it away, but of course he could not.
Petrov grabbed for the airlock controls, the ones leading into the cargo bay. He did not wish to go into the cargo bay, but he did not fear that as much as he feared to remain in the airlock. He frantically punched the buttons, but the door refused to open. It was frozen.
Sobbing, unable to see clearly past the yellowish film of vomit coating his visor, Petrov fought the manual controls. They were stuck. He licked at the inside of his visor to clear it, spitting the acid taste down his suit. Then the walls began to move.
Commander Alexei Petrov felt the strength go from his legs. He did not fight. He did not cry or scream or even pray. He was beyond those things. He slid to the slick red floor next to the soft cube, and because he thought he understood what the cube had been, he looked for a second cube. He saw it sitting in a corner, and then he knew for certain how he would die.
Alexei Petrov watched the walls closing in on him, the exposed bolts seeking to press into his too-soft flesh.
His last thought was to wonder how it was possible. He had helped build the Yuri Gagarin and there was no mechanism that would enable the airlock walls to contract like that. It was simply not possible for the Soviet shuttle to demonstrate the characteristics of an American trash compactor.
In the Situation Room of the White House, the President listened to the Secretary of Defense's rapid-fire translations of the shorthand transcript of Star City's frantic demands that the Yuri Gagarin acknowledge transmission.
"They just repeat the same message over and over," the Secretary of Defense said. "But the shuttle is silent."
"Malfunction?" wondered the President.
"I doubt it. I think it may have something to do with the object the crew claimed they encountered. There's a distinct possibility, Mr. President, that the craft and crew are casualties."
The President nodded. It was regrettable, tragic. But at least it was a Soviet craft this time. Perhaps now the American public would fully understand the dangers of space exploration.
In the background, the Russian calls for the Yuri Gagarin to respond repeated endlessly, the voice of the mission supervisor sinking into a weary monotone.
Then suddenly there came an answer. A voice that was flat, metallic, and entirely without accent or inflection. And the voice spoke in English. It said:
"Hello is all right."
Chapter 2
His name was Remo and all he wanted to do was help the homeless.
Below, Washington D.C. was a blaze of light, its white buildings pristine and ethereal. It was a city designed to be beautiful. By night it was. Artistically arranged spotlights made the Capitol resemble a temple of the ancient world. The White House was a shrine. The Lincoln Memorial was a fragment of the Greek Empire.