by Ray Daley
as he turned the handle he was aware of the deathly silence.
No alarms. He wasn't sure if that was good or not. Probably not.
Blue lights flashed on every instrument panel. He closed the cockpit door behind him, neither the pilot nor co-pilot were moving.
After doing the standard medical checks, neither man had a pulse. It appeared they were both dead, probably the same thing had killed both of them at the exact same time. Right now the ship was in autopilot mode, the pilot was only really necessary for landing and take-off.
Everything else was done by a computer, but in just over 90 seconds they were definitely going to need a pilot.
The autopilot was already braking in preparation to achieve insertion into Mars orbit for landing but they were going to need someone to fire final stage retros.
The steward opened the main cabin door and picked up the mic.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, we have a slight problem. Are there any pilots on board?"
He tried to sound as calm as possible. "If anyone has any piloting experience can they please make themselves known to me, our Captain needs you." He threw that in, to hopefully calm anyone, fooling them into thinking they still had at least one person flying would make them less afraid.
From the announcement area he could see that the drunk was struggling his way out of his seat-belt, trying (and failing miserably) to get up. 3F, trouble again. The steward walked down the aisle towards him. "Sir, please retake your seat."
3F looked him squarely in the eyes. "You want someone who can fly, right? That's me. Barnard Murchison, at your service."
The steward didn't know exactly why the name Murchison was ringing bells in his memory but right now it either didn't matter or he didn't care. He led Murchison toward the cockpit, closing the cabin door behind them.
Considering how drunk the steward assumed he actually was, Murchison took in the situation not only very well but very quickly too.
The Captain and co-pilot were unceremoniously dumped from their seats with Murchison taking the helm and directing the steward into the co-pilots position.
"Listen," said Murchison. "When I say do something, do it right away. We might still make Mars today. If we miss, this isn't going to be pretty."
Murchison was already flicking switches and then started to pull one panel away from the dashboard. Behind the panel several sets of differently coloured wires hung, loose and unconnected. Murchison carefully twisted several pairs together at fingertip, whatever he was doing, he seemed to be fully in control, drunk or not.
All the displays suddenly went dark, no longer flashing blue. Several sets of lights flashed both red and white.
This wasn't a sequence the steward had seen before, these were probably cockpit only indicators.
Seeing the puzzled look on his face Murchison explained "Approaching the terminator, we'll be firing retros shortly."
Murchison looked at the steward. "You trust me boy?"
The steward just nodded.
"I can't do this straight, it's been too long. You need to get me item #12. You understand?"
It was clear then to the steward that Murchison clearly was or had previously been a pilot, only flight and cabin crew were aware what was designated item #12. The ground crew who did the restock referred to it by an obscure alphanumeric part number.
It took the steward thirty seconds from leaving to returning. Murchison half turned his head to see the bottle in the stewards left hand.
"Beware Greeks bearing gifts, eh?" he said, grinning.
The top was quickly unscrewed and the contents up-ended down an anxious and eager throat, almost all gone bar one finger. Murchison offered it to the steward, "Here lad, why don't you join me? Calms the nerves! If it doesn't kill you the crashing will!" Murchison made that last comment over a half smirk, he didn't want the young man to know how close to death they truly were right now.
He'd had to activate Adey-Jackson circuits, long since disconnected in this old Coulter mark II. The men flying this tub had been little more than button pushers with less control than the early Mercury mission chimps.
With the A-J circuits kicked in, a dead monitor sparked into life, it probably hadn't seen power for a good decade but it still fired up right away.
These crates may have been old but they were built at a time when workmanship was still held in high regard, Murchison had seen the chalked handwriting on the circuit board as he'd rewired the A-J back into life. Back then every man personally signed his work, it was traceable right back to individuals on the factory floor. People who were proud their work served a useful purpose.
Murchison said a silent thanks to D. Smith, probably now long dead but sure his name would be added to a list of the heroes who saved Miss Flick. The red and white lights blinked out and Murchison threw three toggle switches with his left hand, watching the read-out on the A-J monitor. It was nothing more than an advanced oscilloscope, Murchison adjusted a knob with his right hand, manually correcting for error, watching the curved waveform gradually grow squarer.
A square wave gave him the advance notice, as it became sine he flicked two of the three toggle switches back to their original positions.
"Tap the red button on that centre panel." Murchison called over to the steward, the button was obvious enough, no more reds on that or any other panel in his current field of vision. Murchison felt the kick, the slight lurch to the right, the starboard attitude thrusters firing to drop them into the desired approach vector.
A piezo speaker croaked out a duo-tone alarm, the steward was looking round in fear.
Murchison punched in the autopilot again. "Just the ground computer letting us know we hit the sweet spot. The autopilot will do the rest. Now press that yellow button and I'll be on my way."
Murchison rose and let himself out of the cockpit. Over the cabin speakers came the prerecorded voice of the now dead pilot, these recordings were made for times when the pilot was away from his seat for whatever reason, this occasion seemed perfect. The passengers would now never know how close to death they had been, Murchison had seen the vectors.
They wouldn't have missed re-entry and skipped off into endless space. Their journey had Deimos at full speed at its end. Just another impact crater in the log of history.
At Viking base Miss Flick docked and equalised, the ground crew ready to remove the evidence of the near fatality. As the pressure door opened they found a passenger sitting in the dead-header position. They knew they couldn't remove the bodies without him seeing them.
Then the realisation.
He'd already seen them.
"If you want to pass into the processing area, a Laker Spaceways rep is there with a small token of our thanks for you sir." said the ground handler. Murchison walked out of the pressure door.
The other passengers were disembarked with the cockpit remaining firmly closed and locked from inside, amid the confusion and bustle Murchison was able to walk slowly out of Viking base into the surrounding series of domed complexes. No-one saw him again.
In the processing area the remaining passengers were gradually counted off the manifest. "One missing?" asked the ground rep.
"Murchison. Our saviour." replied the steward. They both glanced over the list of names on the passenger manifest. No Murchison listed. "3F! Barnard Murchison, he told me himself sir!" said the steward to the ground rep.
"Do you believe in ghosts son?" asked the ground rep. The list showed seat 3F occupied by A. Coulter Jr.
"Why did he tell me his name was Barnard Murchison?" asked the steward.
"Perhaps you're a little young to remember the Alpha test of the first Coulter drive. Two men flew that day. Alfred Coulter and Barnard Murchison. Less than three minutes into the flight a motivator unit burnt out leaving the ship drifting into space. Coulter claimed Murchison was drunk and had fired a thruster too early causing the burn out. Murchison claimed Coulter passed out from the G-forces
in the opening seconds of take-off and that the motivator was already burnt out when he tried to fire it. He said he had to rewire the instrument panel by hand to manually fire the thruster to push them back into normal shipping lanes where they were later picked up by a passing asteroid tramper.
Murchison was blamed for the whole thing and blacklisted forever, his name went down in infamy. He never forgave Murchison to his dying day. Coulter died the following year, a broken man without his lifelong friend and colleague. He left behind his wife and one son, Alfred Junior. It looks like sonny boy finally dragged himself out the of the gutter to redeem a wronged man."
When the media were finally allowed access to the news the steward knew what he had to do.
"Sir, did the man who saved the craft give his name?"
"Yes ladies and gentlemen of the Universal press. Our lives and eternal gratitude belong to Barnard Murchison."
THE END.
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Authors Notes:- I'm fairly sure the basic idea of this story was inspired by the Robert Heinlein short "The Green Hills Of Earth".
I was pleased to discover I managed to spell Deimos right without having to resort to Google