“Separating supply module is no problem,” Federenko was explaining. “Explosive bolts snap cable and push it away.”
“That’s the fourth time in the past hour you’ve told me,” Stoner replied. “It’s worrying you, isn’t it?”
“No, no. Is no problem.”
“Something’s bothering you, Nikolai.”
The Russian’s unshaven face sank into a dark frown. “Not worry, Shtoner. But I see problem.”
“The tanker?”
“Da. We must link with it before attempting to rendezvous with alien, according to flight plan.”
“I know.”
“But latest radar shows tanker is not in best position for us. Trajectory is deviating from plan.”
“We can still reach it, can’t we?”
Federenko nodded somberly. “But will take more maneuvering fuel than planned. Leaves less fuel for making rendezvous maneuvers with alien.”
Stoner thought a moment. “We could let the tanker go and save our maneuvering fuel for the rendezvous.”
“And have no propellant left for return to Earth,” Federenko said.
“They could send up another tanker.”
With a grim laugh, Federenko said, “In how long? Two days? Two weeks?”
“They’ve got a backup at Cape Canaveral; they were holding it in case the first tanker didn’t get off okay.”
“By the time backup tanker is launched we would be on same trajectory as alien—heading out of solar system. Second tanker not reach us at all.”
“Shit.”
“We must link with tanker,” Federenko said firmly, “even if it means no rendezvous with alien.”
“Christ, Nikolai! We’ve come all this way to make contact with that bird!”
“Is true,” the Russian replied calmly. “But I have no desire to meet alien and never return to Earth. Do you?”
Stoner did not answer.
“Don’t worry,” Markov said. “They can easily reach the tanker. They have plenty of fuel for that, according to the mission controllers.”
He was sitting next to Jo at the dining table in the common room of their barracks. Maria sat on his other side, spooning cold borscht to her lips. Across the table one of the Chinese physicists picked at his dinner.
“But they won’t have enough fuel left to make contact with the alien,” Jo said. Her bowl of borscht sat in front of her, untouched.
Markov shrugged and said lightly, “So they will get as close as they can, take a few thousand photographs and then return home. If that’s the best they can do, then that is what they will do.”
But Jo could feel cold tendrils of fear tracing along her veins. “Keith won’t settle for that. He wants to get aboard the alien spacecraft.”
“Federenko is an experienced cosmonaut,” Markov insisted. “He won’t allow anything that would jeopardize their safety.”
“But Keith…”
“What can he do?” Markov asked, gesturing. “Overpower Federenko and steer the Soyuz to the alien? That’s nonsense.”
“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Jo said.
“Besides,” Markov tried a different tack, “Federenko is a fine pilot. The pride of the Soviet cosmonaut corps. I’ll bet you that he links their ship with the tanker and still has plenty of fuel afterward for their rendezvous with the alien.”
“I hope you’re right,” Jo said, not believing a word of it.
Cocoa Beach, Fla.
“But why do you have to go?” she asked.
He gave another exasperated sigh. “For the twentieth time, Marge: I’ve been ordered to go.”
“But you’re not an astronaut. They can’t order you to fly into space!”
“The hell they can’t.”
“You’re a medical doctor, not an astronaut.”
“I’m a colonel in Uncle Sam’s Army, and when the orders come down from the White House, I salute smartly and say, ‘Yes, sir.’ ”
“You want to go!”
“I’m scared green to go! But I’m under orders. What can I do?”
“You’re too old to go into space.”
“Not on the Shuttle. I’ll just be a passenger, like a plane…. Look, Margie, it’s only for a coupls of weeks. We’ve got to set up a quarantine for those guys after they contact the alien…”
“You’ll catch alien germs! I know you will!”
“Don’t be silly. It’s all a lot of fuss over nothing. Alien organisms are alien. They can’t infect us. Just because the goddamned White House is jittery, we’ve got to go through the motions of a two-week quarantine. In orbit, yet!”
“I’m afraid, Sam.”
“It’s nothing to worry about, honest.”
“Alien germs…”
“I won’t even be in contact with the guys who make contact with the alien. We’ve got a whole sealed laboratory for them to stay in. All the tests will be done by remote control and anybody who goes into the lab will be wearing a space suit.”
“But why you, Sam? Why’d they have to pick you?”
“Don’t you worry, honey. When I come back I’ll be an important guy. They’ll want me on TV and everything. We’ll retire in style, Marge. Real style.”
Chapter 42
Markov sat by the bedroom window, smoking ceaselessly as he watched the long summer twilight give way to darkness.
It was cloudy out there, and would probably begin to rain soon. It made no difference. Even on a clear night the floodlights surrounding their barracks made it impossible to see the stars. And the spaceships were all so far away that they couldn’t be seen from Earth anyway.
The first drops hit the windowpane and trickled down across the reflection of Markov’s long, brooding face. He took a fresh cigarette and lit it with the end of the butt in his lips. The fire glowed bright red for a moment, reminding him instantly of the devilish machine that Maria had back on Kwajalein.
Where is she? he wondered. She had gone out right after dinner and hadn’t come back yet.
Restlessly, Markov glanced at his wristwatch. Six hours to go before they rendezvous with the tanker.
Jo was right, he knew. Stoner would never settle for anything less than physical contact with the alien spaceship. Not without a struggle.
He sighed, then pulled deeply on the cigarette. The rain was spattering down now in big, fat drops. In the reflection of the window Markov saw that he was tugging at his beard again. Annoyed with himself, he got up from the chair and paced across the little room, jamming his right hand into his trousers pocket.
He heard Maria’s clumping footsteps out in the hall and went to the door. Opening it, he saw that the rain had caught her. She looked soaked and bedraggled, hair dripping down across her face, uniform hanging soggily on her stocky body.
And then he saw her eyes.
“Marushka, what is it? What’s wrong? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
She came into the room and shut the door tightly, then leaned against it.
“I have,” she whispered, her voice strangely harsh and breathless. “Two of them.”
“What do you mean?” Markov asked, lowering his own voice unconsciously.
“Federenko and Stoner,” she whispered. “They are both dead.”
“What?”
“Not yet,” she said, raising both hands to quiet him. “But they will be. In six hours.”
Markov felt as if a tiger had clawed out his guts. “What do you mean? What are you saying?”
“The tanker,” she said, glancing all around the room, as if she could see a microphone if one had been planted. “The one launched from America. It’s been rigged to explode…”