Nick was unusually quiet, and she could not shake the feeling that bad things were about to happen. Her instincts weren’t dependable because she inevitably expected trouble. It was one of the characteristics that made her a good pilot, but it did render her judgment suspect.
“Hutch.” Bill’s voice added to her sense of gloom. “Take a look at this.” He put the funnel on-screen, the Slurpy’s long tail reaching far down into the atmosphere. “It’s coming up.”
Uh-oh. “You sure?”
“Positive. I don’t think you can see it by just looking at it. But it is happening. It’s withdrawing into itself somehow.”
“How long before the process is complete?”
“I don’t know.”
“Guess, Bill.”
“Two hours, maybe a little longer.”
“Just about the time the chindi gets there.”
“Yes. It appears that way.”
Hutch opened up the circuit again. “George.”
She got a break: They were within range. But when he came on, she got the end of raised voices. It sounded as if they’d been arguing. “Yes?” he snapped.
“George, they’re getting ready to pull out.”
“When? How do you know?”
“The funnel’s coming up. They’re going to take it on board on this pass.”
“Okay, Hutch. Thanks. How much time do we have?”
“An hour and a half. Tops. We want to get you out before it goes into the Slurpy.”
“All right. We’re on our way.”
GEORGE SUSPECTED THEY were about four kilometers from the exit. A fairly long walk, especially for him. But he was sure he could manage it.
They’d been debating expanding their search, getting away from the methodical room-by-room examination of the first few days, and sallying instead well to the front of the ship, to see whether the general layout was the same everywhere, and possibly to find the vessel’s control deck. They’d even thought about climbing down to lower levels. He was grateful they hadn’t done that.
So they moved at best speed down the passageways. George was slow, and the others could have made far better time without him, but they stayed together. No need to panic. They’d be at the exit hatch in plenty of time.
“In any case,” George said, “the chindi isn’t likely to leave orbit as soon as it clears the Slurpy anyway.” Then, as if they were in one of those comedies in which optimistic comments bring down the wrath of the gods, all three were thrown violently off-balance. George banged his head on the wall and tumbled into a heap.
“They’re braking.” It was Hutch’s voice. Coming out of nowhere.
Alyx got off the floor, only to be knocked down again. She looked over at him. “George, you okay?”
“Yes.” Fine. A little bruised, but otherwise all right. Is it safe to get up? Tor climbed cautiously to his feet, helped Alyx to hers, then offered a hand to George. “We better keep moving,” he said.
“Why are they slowing down?” asked George.
“They’re probably going to pick up the funnel,” said Hutch.
“Won’t they fall out of orbit?”
“If it went on long enough,” said Bill. “But not in this case. All they’ll do is lose a little altitude.”
He was on his feet again. Damn. The thing had been so stable for so long they’d taken it for granted. Another jolt knocked him forward. “How long’s this going to go on?” he asked.
“I’d say for the next couple of hours. Until you get to the Slurpy. Is everybody okay over there?”
“We’re fine.” He was standing up, leaning forward somewhat. “If it stays like this, though, it’s going to be a long walk to the hatch.”
He listened for a response. “Hutch?”
“Hutch,” said Tor. “Can you hear us?”
Silence.
“I CAN SEE the problem, Hutch,” said Bill. “They’ve restored the exit hatch again. And that cut off the signal to the relay.”
Hutch was sitting in the lander, ready to launch. “Well, I’m glad that’s all it is.”
Nick, back on the bridge, was making worried noises.
The projected rescue, which had seemed routine as long as they got sufficient warning, was beginning to look problematical. Presumably, the chindi would be braking until it entered the Slurpy. Which meant Hutch couldn’t land on it. Once in the storm, they could expect it to match the funnel’s speed through the atmosphere, which was about 1400 kph. At that point, the braking maneuver should stop, and it would become possible to get aboard. But she’d be working in the middle of a blizzard. And even though the chindi would have slowed somewhat, she’d still have to deal with high winds.
After it took the funnel equipment on board, it would begin to accelerate again, to regain orbital velocity. After that, it was anybody’s guess what would happen.
“Bill,” she said, “what’s the range of winds in the Slurpy, for an object moving at the same velocity as the funnel?”
“Hutch, there are some areas in which it would be only a few kilometers per hour. But there is a wide variance, although no worse than hurricane force.”
Well, that was consoling.
“You can’t go over there in that,” said Nick.
Bill agreed. “Wait until they come out. Then pick them up.”
Hutch stared out at the cargo hold. What had she told George? We want to get you out before it goes into the Slurpy. But that was before the braking process started. If they tried to come out onto the hull now, somebody would get killed.
Lamps came on signaling that decompression was complete. The doors were opening. “They’re ready to leave,” she told Nick. “I’d rather take my chances with the Slurpy than have the damned thing take off while we’re all out on the hull.” She took a deep breath. “Bill, plot me a course for the chindi.”
THE CHINDI GLIDED through the night, framed by the vast arc of Autumn’s rings. The lander dropped down and took up station above and to the rear of the giant ship.
“The chindi continues to brake, Hutch. At present rate, it will be over the funnel in one hour sixteen minutes.”
The major risk was that George, Tor, and Alyx would make it to the exit hatch, cut through, and try to leave. Anyone sticking his head out onto the hull while the chindi was braking would get banged around pretty severely.
She wasn’t sure what she could do in the event, but at least she’d keep close. So she could pick up the body.
Damn. Hutch promised herself again that this absolutely would be her last flight. When this was over, she was going to find a quiet office somewhere, or maybe just head for a front porch.
Even though the funnel was probably no longer contributing to the Slurpy, the vast storm showed no sign of abating. She watched the chindi, firing occasional bursts from its forward thrusters, slowing its velocity to match that of the funnel. She imagined the landing party inside, trying to negotiate the long corridors and getting thrown off their feet periodically. Unfortunately, there seemed to be no rhythm to the braking, no pattern that would serve to warn them when another jolt was coming.
Bill kept a picture of the funnel on her screen. It was continuing to rise through the troposphere, withdrawing into itself like a long, flexible telescope. It had become steadier now, and no longer seemed to be getting blown about.
“Winds near the top of the funnel,” said Bill, “are registering close to one-fifty.”
She stayed with the chindi, keeping where she could watch the exit hatch.
Stay put, she told George mentally. Don’t try to leave. Not yet.
Ahead, the Slurpy grew, expanding steadily, a mass of howling white winds, snow, sleet, and ice. It grew until the arc of Autumn’s ring disappeared behind it, until it sprawled across the sky, a vast gray front, a North Dakota blizzard coming in from Hudson Bay.