So far, so good. He hunched his left shoulder forward, and read the small dials there: Oxygen tanks, full. Water tank, half full. Battery, fully charged. Temperature inside the suit, sixty-eight degrees.
Was the air in the cubicle getting foul? Ricks snapped the faceplate shut, pushed the air intake button. This air was cleaner, he was sure of it.
Where were the others? Where was Blair? He couldn’t hear a sound. The suit cut out all external atmosphere, but not all external sound. He reached up under the helmet chin and switched on the suit radio. A faint crackling of static told him it was on, but other than that there was no sound.
He looked around the cubicle. Was there any air in it now? He could be standing in total vacuum, there was no way to be sure. He could be the only one still alive in the Station.
“Blair?” His own voice, confined within the helmet, sounded harsh and croaking in his ears. The radio gave no answer.
Unwillingly, he moved toward the door. In here, the sound of his pounding heart was magnified, frightening him more than the radio’s silence or the thought that the Station might now be airless. He pushed open the door, and saw Blair standing in the corridor, wearing his spacesuit but holding the helmet casually in his left hand.
Blair looked at him and grimaced, then motioned for Ricks to open his faceplate. Ricks reached up, switched off the radio, and removed his helmet. He managed a grin. “Kind of nice in here,” he said. “Set up a bar, put a couple of chairs around, it could be real livable.” But he heard the tremor in his voice, and he knew that Blair heard it, too.
Blair said, “Get on down by the elevator with Standish and Miller. If you hear another bell, a few notes lower than the first one, with a triple-beep in it, clap the helmet on. Otherwise, keep it off. You don’t have canned air to waste.”
“Watch for the triple beep,” said Ricks jauntily. “Aye aye, sir.”
Blair grunted, and turned away, heading down the corridor in the opposite direction. Ricks watched him go, glaring at his back. ‘I’m a better man than you, Harvey Ricks,’ said that back. ‘You’ll break down, you’ll flunk my course, you’ll never match me or even come close.”
Blair disappeared, through the bulkhead doorway to Section Three, and Ricks turned the other way, walking down the corridor and right to the elevator. Standish and Miller were standing their, helmets on but faceplates open, and Ricks felt somewhat better. His helmet was in his hand.
As he came up to them, Standish said, “What do you suppose it is?” His pale face was even paler now, his large eyes larger.
Ricks shrugged. “It’s probably just a drill. Get us new boys all lathered up, just in case we weren’t taking it all seriously.”
“I thought I felt a tremor just before the bell started,” said Miller. “We may have been hit by a meteor or some such thing.” Ricks shrugged again. “Whatever it was, it doesn’t seem very urgent. Did Papa Blair tell you two about the triple-beep?”
“Sure,” said Miller. “He was sore at you, because you were late getting out in the hall.”
“I was running my suit-check,” said Ricks easily.
“Omigosh!” cried Standish. “I forgot!” He started the check, right then and there.
Watching Standish run through his suit-check, Ricks felt a lot better. He hadn’t forgotten.
BLAIR found Mendel at the sealed bulkhead between Sections Four and Five. Mendel waved to him and grinned sourly. “I thought you’d be along,” he said.
“What is it? The cargo section?”
“Right through there, boy. Sorry. We’ve had a meteor strike. Son of a gun came at us on the blind side.”
Blair glanced quickly at the gauges beside the bulkhead door. “Pressure’s up,” he said. “Looks like it didn’t break all the way through.”
“No way to tell yet,” said Mendel. “It might be a slow leakage.”
“Then we have time to move the cargo.”
Mendel shook his head. “Sorry, Glenn, no can do. Open this door here, it might joggle the air pressure just enough to make a slow leak a fast one. If that happens, it won’t be this door that slams shut, it’ll be the one way over there, between Three and Four.”
“So you wait in Three. I’m willing to take the chance.”
“I’m not. And it isn’t your pearly white skin I’m worried about, it’s my pearly white Station. If we have one Section in vacuum, we’ll have trouble enough keeping equilibrium. With two Sections out of whack, we’ll wobble all over the damn Solar System.”
“Irv, my whole cargo’s in there! The cargo for QB is in there!”
“I can’t help it. Besides, vacuum won’t hurt that stuff for QB”.
“Irv, if there’s a break through the inner hull, and that meteor shakes loose, the QB cargo won’t be in the Station any more, it’ll be scattered halfway from here to Mars. Did you ever see stuff come flying out of a room that goes suddenly to vacuum?”
“Yes, I did. Did you ever see a man that’s gone suddenly to vacuum?”
“Irv, look at your blasted pressure gauge!”
“It’s down.”
“It’s down less than half a point, Irv, and that’s because you’ve stopped pumping air in there. Listen, that QB cargo isn’t hermetically sealed. If it doesn’t get good air, it can rot.”
“It can rot right now, for all of me. I’m not touching Section Five or anything in it. We’ll get in touch with QB, and let them send a couple of reps up here. It’s their job, not ours.”
“Irv, don’t you realize what that cargo means to the boys at QB?”
“Sure, I do. But do you realize what this Station here means to me? The boys at QB can re-order another batch. I can’t go out and re-order another Station.”
“Irv, listen. The ground-pounders don’t realize how important that stuff is. Without it, the crew at QB will be at each other’s throats in a month. This is no exaggeration, Irv, the whole QB operation will fall apart within a month. And if QB falls apart, the whole system falls apart, because it’s QB’s job to run maintenance for the rest of us.”
“I know that,” said Mendel, “I know it well. Every word you say is absolutely true. But I still say they can re-order.”
“And I say it’ll take three months at the very least to fill the new order! We can’t even put the order in until we can prove to the ground-pounders’ satisfaction that this batch is destroyed, and we won’t be able to do that till the reeps get here and patch the hole. So that’s ten or fifteen days right there. Then they’ll fool around another half a month or more, figuring out costs and tax breaks and whatnot, wanting to know why QB can’t make do till the next regular shipment, and bogging down in a lot of red tape. Then they have to put the order in, out of sequence, so it’ll take longer to fill it. And every single item has to be doublechecked and approved by the psycho department and half a dozen other departments. It’ll be more than three months!”
Mendel doggedly shook his head. “I’m not going to argue with you, Glenn,” he said, “I’m going to tell you. That cargo is your responsibility, but this whole Station is mine, and I’m not going to risk this Station for you or QB or anybody. Period, finish, end of discussion. Now, I’m going to go on up and call QB and have them send us a couple of reeps. Want to come along?”
“I want to boot you in the rump, Irv, I swear.”
Mendel grinned. “I feel like doing some rump-booting myself. Take it easy, Glenn. It’ll all work out.”
“Hot diggity,” said Blair sourly.
“Want to come up to the office with me?”
“No.”
“Suit yourself.”
Mendel left, and Blair stomped angrily back down the corridor to Section Two, where he found the three engineers still waiting by the elevator. He glared at them and snarled, “What the devil are you clowns doing? Get out of those idiot clown suits, the party’s over.”
The three of them stared at him in astonishment. Ricks looked as though he might smart-talk, and Blair waited hopeful
ly, fists clenched, but something about his stance gave Ricks second thoughts and he turned away without a word, red-faced and frowning.
QB was the Quartermaster Base, a large satellite in permanent orbit two hundred miles above the surface of the Moon. It was shaped somewhat like the three Space Stations, though with a thicker outer ring and a less intricate inner section. This base held all of the equipment for maintenance and repair of the entire General Transit system, the three Space Stations, the two barbells, and the Moon-based lighters.
Attached to QB by a simple hook-and-ring mechanism were six repair ships, familiarly known as reeps. Reeps were small blunt rounded one-man ships, with payloads made up exclusively of fuel. Protruding from the front of each reep were four jointed arms, operated by the arms and legs of the pilot. The reep had one large rocket exhaust at the rear, which swiveled to allow turning maneuverability, and four small swiveled exhausts around the body, permitting the reep complete close-range maneuverability. An experienced reep pilot could operate his ship as though it were an extension of his body, backing and sidestepping, working the four arms as readily as he used his own arms and legs.
There were two kinds of reeps, and three of each kind. There was the gripper reep, with arms designed for holding and manipulating, and the fixer reep, with arms for welding and cutting.
When the call came in from Station One, QB was three-quarters around the Earth-side of its orbit. The radioman on duty got the approximate dimensions of the meteor now jammed into the outer edge of the Station, and its approximate placement, and passed this information on to the Dispatcher Office. A call then went down to the Supply Department for Part X-102-W, outer hull replacement panel. This piece, eight feet by eight, was delivered to the Dispatch Delivery Point, at the inner rim of the doughnut.
Meanwhile, fixer reep 2 and gripper reep 5 were fueled and piloted. Spacesuited QB crewmen put the replacement panel in position for the gripper reep to get hold of, and the two ships broke away from the satellite, headed toward Earth.
The radioman at QB got in touch with the radioman at Station One and told him to expect the two reeps in fourteen days, approximately twelve hours before the Station was scheduled to make contact with the barbell from Station Three.
For everyone concerned, it was a long fourteen days. Irv Mendel watched the air pressure creep downward in Section Five, and gnawed his lower lip. Glenn Blair thought of the cargo for QB, and snarled at everyone he saw. Harvey Ricks thought of his two moments of panic, and waited for the chance to shove Blair’s superior attitude down his stinking throat.
* * * *
Time in space is arbitrary. There are no seasons in the gulf between the planets, and there is no day and night. The sun, incredibly bright and fierce when seen without the protection of miles of atmosphere, glares out eternally at its domain, heating whatever it touches, leaving to frigid cold whatever lies in shadow. The twenty-four hour day is a fact of Earth, not a fact of the universe. In the void between the planets, the day is singular, and will end only with the death of the sun.
No matter how much he wills it otherwise, Man is a parochial creature, a native of a planet and not of all space. Whatever else he leaves behind him when he roves beyond his own globe, he takes with him his ingrained ideas of night and day. In every room and office of Space Station One there was a clock, and every clock pointed simultaneously to exactly the same time. The time was that of the Greenwich Meridian, the time of England and Ireland and Scotland and Wales. When Big Ben tolled twelve o’clock noon, the spacefarers of Station One ate lunch. When Big Ben, thousands of miles away in London, struck twelve o’clock midnight, the spacemen obediently went to bed.
The reeps arrived at four twenty-two p.m., the fourteenth day out from Earth. The gripper reep, still clutching replacement part X-102-W, slid into a soft elliptical orbit around the Station. The fixer reep closed gently against the personnel hatch grid. Spacesuited crewmen fastened it to the grid by metal lines through the two rings, one at the reep’s top toward the rear and the other at the bottom near the front. The reep pilot pumped the cabin air into the storage tank, adjusted his helmet, and opened the magnetically-sealed clear plastic cockpit dome. A Station crewman helped him out onto the grid, and escorted him inside for a conference with Irv Mendel and Blair.
Mendel greeted him at his office doorway, hand out-thrust. “Welcome aboard. Irv Mendel.” The pilot grinned and took the proffered hand. “Ed Wiley,” he said. He nodded to Blair. “How’s it going, Glenn?”
“Lousy,” Blair told him. “Did you see the strike?”
“Yeah, it’s a nice one, a real boulder. Which section is that?”
“Five,” said Mendel. “Glenn’s cargo is in there, that’s why he’s so peeved.”
“It’s QB’s cargo,” snapped Blair, “not mine.”
Wiley frowned. “Ours? How so?”
Mendel explained, “Your six-months’ goodies are in there.”
“Oh, fine. In what condition?” Blair said, “This fat character here won’t let me in to find out. The whole section’s at half-pressure by now.”
“Then he’s right,” said Wiley. “I hate to admit it, but he’s right. Double the pressure all at once, you’re liable to knock the meteor right out of the hole. If pressure’s going down that slow right now, it means the meteor’s partially plugging the leak.”
“And what happens when you guys yank the meteor out? Same difference.”
“Not the same,” said Mendel. “This way, nobody gets killed.” Blair shrugged angrily.
Wiley said, “Maybe we can work something. Vacuum won’t hurt the goodies, will it?”
“It may explode the cases,” said Blair. “That shouldn’t do too much damage. I’m worried about it being flipped outside. The cases’ll burst, and the whole shipment’ll be scattered to hell-an’-gone.”
Wiley nodded. “We’ll try to lower the pressure slow and easy. Have you cut off the air supply in that section?”
“First thing,” said Mendel. “Good. We’ll need two guys on the outside to give us a hand. Do you want to, Glenn?”
“Damn right,” said Blair. He got to his feet. “I’ll suit up.”
Wiley stopped him at the door. “Don’t worry, boy,” he said. “Nobody’s going to blame you if it goes wrong.”
Blair studied him, then said, “Tell me, Ed. If that shipment doesn’t get out to QB, will it be a very pleasant place to live the next few months.”
Wiley returned his gaze a moment, then shook his head. “No, it won’t. We’ll have to hide the razor blades.”
“How do you feel now, Ed?” pursued Blair. “Happy in your work, content with the job and the pay and the living conditions? How are you going to feel two months from now?”
“I know that, Glenn. Believe me, I know exactly what you mean. Don’t forget, I come from QB. If there’s any way at all to fix that strike and save the cargo, I’ll do it.”
“What do you figure your chances, Ed?”
“It’s hard to say, before we get a closer look. Maybe fifty-fifty.”
“If I open the Section Five door and go in there and get that cargo out, what are the chances of the meteor being knocked out? Fifty-fifty?”
“Less than that, Glenn. You’ve only got half-pressure in there, you tell me.” Wiley patted his shoulder. “We’ll work it out,” he said.
“I’m glad to hear it.”
* * * *
Blair left the office and took the elevator down to Section Two and his cubicle. As he was getting into his suit, there was a knock at the door. He grunted, and Ricks came in.
The two had been avoiding each other for the last two weeks, Ricks more obviously than Blair. Whenever one entered a room—mess hall or library or whatever—the other immediately left. When they passed one another in a corridor, they looked straight ahead with no acknowledgment.
Ricks now looked truculent and determined. Blair grimaced at the sight of him and snapped, “All right, Ricks, what is it? I don’t hav
e time for hand-holding right now.”
“You’re going outside,” said Ricks, “to help fix the strike. I want to go out with you.”
“What? Go to hell!”
“You’re going to need more than one man out there.”
“We’ll get an experienced crewman. You’ve never been outside in vacuum in your life. This isn’t any training course.”
“How did you do the first time, Blair? Did you make it?”
“You aren’t me, sonny.”
“I’ve been taking vitamins.”
“If you want that chip knocked off your shoulder, you better try somewhere else. I’m liable to knock your head off with it.”
“Try it afterwards, Superman. I’m a better man than you are every day in the week and twice on Sundays. Give me a chance to prove it.”
“No.”
Ricks grinned crookedly. “Okay, big man,” he said. “It’s your football, so you can choose up the sides.”
He started toward the doorway and Blair growled, “Hold on a second.” When Ricks turned, he said, “You’re a grandstander, Ricks. You knew there wasn’t a chance in a million I’d let you go outside with me, so it was a nice safe challenge, wasn’t it?”
“Then call my bluff!”
Blair nodded. “I’m going to. Get into your suit. But just let me tell you something first. This isn’t a game. If you flub, it counts. You’re going to be living on the Moon for the next two years. That’s a small community; everybody knows everybody else. If you flub, those are going to be two miserable years for you, sonny. You’re going to be the boy who lost the cargo for QB, and nobody’ll let you forget it.” Ricks’ face was pale, but his grin sardonic. “All right, Cargo-master,” he said. “I can handle that job, too. I can be your whipping boy.” He spun around, and out of the cubicle.
The Ninth Science Fiction Megapack Page 55