The push came, and they glided out the door. Kurt turned in a long arc and Tor gazed back at the Memphis. His home in the void. Then he looked for the other ship and saw its lights. But he couldn’t tell how far it was.
“About two kilometers,” Kurt said. Tor glanced back at the pieces of the stealth, sticking out of the cargo compartment. It might have been a dead dragonfly.
THE WENDY WAS immense after the snug conditions on the Memphis. It could accommodate three times as many passengers. It had substantially more storage space, and Tor knew it was also equipped with areas that were designed to be converted into specialized labs. They left the e-suits and air tanks on their seats and descended from the shuttle. The sheer size of the launch bay bore down on him. “Why didn’t they use a smaller ship?” he asked.
“This was the only one not already assigned somewhere,” Kurt said. “And it was handy.”
Another dozen containers, marked City of Memphis, had been assembled on either side of the dock. Tor waited while Kurt opened the shuttle’s cargo hold. “Refrigeration’s in back,” he said.
He zeroized the gravity, as Hutch had, and they lifted out the bodies and carried them down a long central corridor to the after section. The passageway was dark save where they walked. The lights, which emanated directly from the bulkhead, moved with them.
“In here,” said Kurt, opening doors and working his way past shadowy pieces of equipment. “Lab stuff,” he added. “Biological over there, atmospheric here. Astrophysics next door.” He stopped in front of a set of dark gray containers, punched a button on one, and watched a side panel slide back. Cold air wafted out. “Here we go.”
They placed the bodies inside, and, without a word, he closed the door, inhaled, and turned away. “Let’s get the rest of your supplies,” he said.
Steak, turkey, fruits and vegetables, and some desserts, were stored in adjoining freezers. (There was no real meat, of course. Actual meat and the hides of living animals had gone out of fashion half a century before. Hamburgers, pork chops, chicken, everything was artificially processed. The prospect of eating the flesh of, say, a cow, would have sickened most of Hutch’s passengers.) They loaded them onto a cart, returned to the shuttle, and put them in the hold. Then Kurt led the way to a nearby storage area and opened several cabinets, which were full of complete dinners, as well as rolls, cereal, flour, assorted condiments, and a range of other foods. “They must expect you to be gone a long time,” he said.
When they had everything in the lander, Kurt restored the gravity and excused himself. “I have one more thing to get,” he said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
KURT HAD SPENT the two hours of his approach to the Memphis on a special project. Wendy’s automated kitchen, like those on all Academy ships, provided a hands-on feature for anyone who wanted to get away from the standard prepared fare and put together something special.
He had been making a German meat loaf dinner for Hutch and her passengers. He’d baked a mixture of ground pork and ground beef, had added diced onion and applesauce and bread crumbs and catsup and salt and black pepper. Bill had kept an eye on it while he made his run over to the Memphis. Now he left Tor and hurried up to the kitchen, which was located opposite the common room.
“Everything is fine, Kurt,” Bill told him. “Your timing appears to be perfect.”
It had been a long run to this godforsaken place. Kurt hated eagle flights, flights with no souls on board other than the pilot. He wasn’t much of a reader and didn’t enjoy watching sims alone. When it happened, he just rattled around, trying to make conversation with the AI. He was not looking forward to another ten days locked up alone.
Hutch was the daughter he’d have liked to have. But Margot had not wanted children, and he’d spent too much time away from her, so she’d refused to renew. In the end it was just as well. But if he’d been granted a child, he would have opted for another Priscilla.
The meat loaf was finished. He put it onto a serving dish, added his own potato salad and red cabbage, and covered the dish. He next picked up the Black Forest cake, inspected it, informed Bill it looked good, and laid it carefully in a cake dish.
He placed everything in a box he’d brought for the occasion and started out. “Good night, Bill,” he said.
Bill did not reply.
He stepped into the passageway and the ship shuddered. It wasn’t a bang, or an explosion, but rather it felt as if a wall of water had washed over them. While he listened, the lights failed. They came back on, blinked a couple of times, and went out again. The emergency lights came on, pale and gloomy. A Klaxon began to blat.
What the hell is going on? “Bill? What’s happening?”
Still nothing.
The hatchway behind him, the one through which he’d just passed, blinked its warning lamp. Then the hatch slid smoothly down from the overhead and closed, sealing him off from the bridge. Elsewhere, throughout the ship, he heard dull metallic thunks as more hatches shut.
AFTER KURT LEFT, Tor got down out of the shuttle and went looking for a washroom. There was one in the shuttle, of course, but it was a trifle cramped, and he’d seen one back in one of the storage bays.
He found it without difficulty, used it, and began strolling casually among the cabinets and lockers while he waited for Kurt to return. He opened one storage bin, and was startled to find a stone insect face looking back at him. It was bulbous, oversize, with stalked green eyes and both antennas broken off. It looked like a mantis. There was a tag, identifying it from a ruined temple on Quraqua.
He listened for footsteps, heard none, and opened another bin. It held several pieces, a couple of jars, a small statue, a couple of chunks of wall with engraved ideographs. All were labeled with place and date of discovery.
He’d wandered back into a corner and was looking at a drinking cup, running his fingertips across its enamel surface, when something threw him off-balance. Had the ship changed course? Begun to brake? He wasn’t sure, but the sensation passed quickly.
Hutch always warned them in advance when she was planning any kind of maneuver, and he was sure Kurt would have followed the same procedure. He thought about contacting the captain but decided against it. He wouldn’t want a story going back to Hutch about how a course adjustment had provoked a panicky call from her passenger. Ha-ha.
He was looking around, wishing Kurt would come back, when the lights dipped. The sounds of the life-support system, the persistent humming of fans somewhere in the bulkheads, went down, too, and finally stopped. A bank of dull yellow lamps switched on. The fans tried to start again, and finally caught. It didn’t take an expert to figure out something wasn’t right. He decided the best thing for him was to go back and wait in the shuttle.
A Klaxon went off overhead somewhere, startling him and leaving him trembling. He closed the bin door. The electronic gabble in the bulkheads had changed, gotten quieter. The chamber had gotten quieter. The fans quit again. For good. And suddenly he realized he wasn’t standing on the deck. He’d begun to float. The artificial gravity was off!
More lights blinked at him. Red. And he heard a slushing sound, metal moving across an oiled surface. It took a moment to realize what it was, and the certainty sickened him. A hatch was closing! The only one he knew about sealed him off from the passageway. And the shuttle.
He grabbed hold of a cabinet, tried to get his feet on the deck. Finally, he gave up and propelled himself by pushing off on a bench. He wasn’t good at zero gee and crashed into a bulkhead and bounced off. But he got to the hatch and saw that it was indeed shut.
But there was always a manual panel. He hadn’t looked during the flight, hadn’t paid any attention, but he’d seen them in the sims. The power goes out, and you open a small door and push down a handle. He didn’t have much light, and was forced to search with his fingertips. In the rear of the chamber, the Klaxon continued to whoop and yowl.