“The Americans did this?”
“No.” She shook her head impatiently. “Our own people, a faction, very high up…”
“They’re going to kill our own cosmonaut? And Stoner too?”
Maria looked frightened, terrified. “You don’t understand, Kir. It’s a power struggle. Inside the Kremlin, they are fighting for control. We’re only pawns to them, Kir. Less than pawns.”
“When will the tanker explode?” he demanded.
“When they make contact with it. The timer was set by one of our technicians just before the tanker was loaded aboard the American shuttle.”
Markov sank onto the bed. “Maria…to kill them, kill them both, because of their power games…it’s monstrous.”
“I didn’t think they would kill Federenko too,” she said. “I never thought they would do that.”
He buried his face in his hands. The cigarette fell from his fingers to the bare wooden floor, glowing in the shadows.
Maria went to him, knelt by his feet. “I’m sorry, Kir. I risked my neck to find out for you, and now I’m sorry that I did.”
“It’s not your fault, Marushka.” His voice came out muffled, tearful.
“There’s nothing we can do,” she said. “Nothing.”
But Markov put his hands down and straightened his back. He looked down into his wife’s eyes.
“Yes, there is,” he said firmly.
“Kir…”
“There is something we can do, Maria. We can warn them.”
“But then they’ll know that I…Kir, they’ll kill us both.” She was beyond terror; the absolute certainty of it made her voice flat with hopelessness.
“Then we’ll die together,” he said. “Better that than letting those two be killed in space.”
“You are sulking,” said Federenko.
Stoner pulled his attention away from the computer screen and looked at the cosmonaut sitting beside him.
“You don’t look so happy yourself, Nikolai.”
“How can I be? To come all this way and miss the alien…it is not happy.”
“I’ve been checking the computer figures against the latest data on the tanker’s trajectory. We can still make it—if you can dock us with the tanker on the first pass.”
Federenko closed his eyes for a moment, as if rehearsing the problem in his head. “Not easy, Shtoner.”
“You want me to try it?”
The Russian laughed. “You? You are not pilot; you are passenger.”
“Then it’s up to you,” Stoner said flatly.
The laugh died. “I see,” Federenko said. “You make trap for me, eh?”
“I want you to understand how important this is. You’ve got to dock us with the tanker on the first try. Otherwise we miss the alien.”
Federenko nodded unhappily. “Hokay, Shtoner. You make point. I dock with tanker on first pass. You watch!”
Breaking into a grin, Stoner said, “See? I wasn’t sulking at all.”
Blindly Markov raced through the rain, his long legs propelling him by instinct toward the command center. Zworkin. The old man had not been in his bedroom when Markov had pounded on his door. He must be in the command center, Markov told himself. He must be.
Maria was somewhere behind him as he raced along the gravel path that led to the command center’s massive windowless building. The rain lashed at him and he slitted his eyes against its cold sting.
Zworkin is the only one who can save them now, Markov thought as he ran. If I try talking with the security police I’m lost. Zworkin! And through him to Bulacheff.
Stoner couldn’t understand the babble of Russian coming through the radio speaker, but from the expression of Federenko’s deeply lined face he knew it was bad.
The cosmonaut spoke almost angrily back to ground command, and more urgent words burst from the radio.
Stoner turned to the radar screen, a small orange-glowing disk on the panel between their two seats. It showed a strong blip almost dead ahead of them. He stretched slightly to search through the observation port and—yes, there it was. A silvery crescent of metal against the starry blackness.
The tanker. Close enough to see it.
But Federenko’s gloomy frown sent a chill of apprehension through Stoner. He looks as if he’s just been ordered to attack the whole Chinese Army with his bare hands.
“What is it, Nikolai?”
Federenko turned toward him, defeat smoldering his eyes. “The tanker. We must not go near it. Malfunction.”
“What?”
“Very strange, they tell me. Malfunction in tanker self-destruct circuit. It can explode, they think.”
The cosmonaut’s hands reached for the stubby levers that controlled the Soyuz’s maneuvering jets.
“Wait!” Stoner yelped. “If we don’t link up with the tanker we can’t complete the mission!”
“If we do link with tanker—boom!”
Stoner sagged inside his restraining harness. “I don’t believe it. How could…?”
A flash caught his eye and they both craned toward the observation ports. In total silence the tanker blew apart, a trio of small flashes followed quicker than an eye-blink by an enormous fireball that nearly blinded them.
Stoner squeezed his eyes shut. Federenko growled something too low for Stoner to catch.
The fireball faded into darkness, leaving a burning afterimage against Stoner’s eyes. There was no shock wave, no noise, no debris pattering around them. It was as if they had been watching a silent picture. Stoner couldn’t believe it was real.
“Gone,” Federenko said heavily.
Stoner rubbed at his eyes, then looked out through the port again. Nothing but the unutterably distant stars.
“Gone,” he admitted. “And where does that leave us?”
“We are dead men, Shtoner. Without propellants from tanker, we cannot get back to Earth.”
It took a few moments for the realization to sink in. Finally Stoner heard himself say, “But we have enough fuel to make the rendezvous with the alien, don’t we?”
Federenko gave him a long, solemn look. “Da,” he said at last. “Plenty maneuvering fuel now.”
“Then let’s do it!” Stoner said. “That’s what we came out here for, isn’t it? Let’s do it!”
Federenko’s bearded face almost smiled. “I knew you would say that, Shtoner.”
“What else is there?” Stoner asked, feeling strangely excited. “Let’s go!”
Johnson Space Flight Center
“Hey, it’s quittin’ time, man!”
Hank Garvey planted his ponderous bulk on the computer analyst’s desk and leaned toward the skinny youngster.
“We got an emergency on our hands, boy,” Garvey said, his voice murderously calm and deep, like the throaty warning cough of a lion.
“The next shift…”
“Uncle Sam wants yew,” said Garvey. “Yer the best goddam’ computer jockey in the Center. I know, ’cause I’ve had to lissen to yew tellin’ me ’bout it a thousand times or two. Now yer gonna prove it.”
“But my ol’lady…”
Garvey laid a hand the size of a football on the analyst’s bony shoulder. “Our man Stoner and his Rooskie pilot are in trouble. Their tanker blew up on ’em.”
“Jeezus!”
“They ain’t hurt. Their spacecraft’s intact, no damage. But they can’t get back home—not unless some damn smart boy comes up with a new flight plan for ’em—damn fast.”
“Holy shit!” the computer analyst said. “Why didn’t you say that in the first place? Okay, okay, get your fat ass off my desk an’ lemme get to work.”
Garvey grinned like a Poppa Bear. “That’s mah boy.”