XVII
Watching Harcourt die taught me a theological lesson: Life is short; never fail to do something you really want to do simply because you're afraid of being caught.
— Gregory MacAllister, "The Last Hours of Abbey Harcourt," Show Me the Money
Hours to breakup (est): 153
The news that the mission had found the skyhook base didn't cheer anybody on the ground. They were far too engaged worrying about their skins.
"Pity it's not up and working," said Chiang. "We could use a skyhook."
"Actually," said Hutch, "it is nearby."
"Really? Where?"
"On the western side of the continent. It's on a mountaintop on the coast."
"I wouldn't mind seeing it before we go," said Nightingale.
MacAllister shook his head. Do these people never learn? "I think," he said, "we should not tempt fate. Let's concentrate on getting our rear ends out of here."
"There might be a way." The grayness that had settled about Beek-man had lifted slightly. Only slightly, but Marcel caught a glimpse of hope.
Marcel had been convinced by the intensity of Beekman's consistent position that no alternate method of rescue was possible. The captain had been standing on the bridge for two hours staring out at the spectacle of the approaching giant, thinking how it had all been bravado, challenge the best minds they had, come up with something, when it was quite dear there was nothing anybody could come up with.
Now he was confronted by this same man, gone partly mad, perhaps. Marcel did not believe him. "How?" he asked.
"Actually, it was your idea."
"My idea."
"Yes. I repeated our conversation to several of them. John thinks you might be on to something."
"John Drummond?"
"Yes."
"What am I on to?"
"Lowering a rope. Cutting off a piece of the assembly. We've been looking at the possibility of constructing a scoop."
"Could we actually do something like that? You said it was impossible."
"Well, we can't get it down to the ground. They're going to have to make some altitude. But if they can do that, if they can get Tess into the air, get up a bit, then yes, it might be possible." He sat down and pushed his palms together. "I'm not saying it'll be easy. I'm not even saying it'll be anything but a long shot. But yes, if we set things up, and we get lucky, it might be made to work."
"How? What do we have to do?"
Beekman explained the idea they'd worked out. He drew diagrams and answered questions. He brought up computer images and ran schematics across the displays. "The critical thing," he concluded, "is time. We may not have enough time for all this."
"Then let's get started. What do you want me to do?"
"First, we need a lot of help. We need people who can go outside and work."
"I can do that. So can Mira."
"I'm not talking two people. I'm talking whole squadrons."
"Okay. So we ask for volunteers. Do a little basic training."
"This is stuff that's going to take people with some coordination. Our folks are all theorists. They'd kill themselves out there."
"So what kind of coordinated types do we need?"
"To start with, welders."
"Welders."
"Right. And I have to tell you, I have no idea where we'd be able to get them."
"Welding? How hard can it be?"
"I don't know. I've never done it."
"It seems to me we only need one person who knows how to do it. I mean, he can teach the others."
"So where do we find the one person?"
"Nobody here?"
"I've already looked."
"All right. Then we go to the Star. There are fifteen hundred people over there. Somebody ought to know something about it." He was already scratching notes. Suddenly he looked up and frowned. "It won't work," he said.
"Why not?"
"You're talking about a lot of e-suits. We have four on board. Maybe a few more on the other ships."
"We already checked it out. Hutch was hauling a shipment of them. They're on board Wildside, generators, boots, everything we need."
"Okay." Marcel felt a fresh surge of hope. "What about the welds? Will they actually hold? We're putting a lot of weight on them."
Beekman nodded. "We're confident. That's the best I can tell you. We have four ships to work with, and that's a lot of lock-down space. The material is superlight. So yes, if you ask me will it hold, I'm sure it will, if we do a good job."
"All right. What else do we need?"
"We're still working on it."
"Okay," he said. "Put together a complete list. Get it to me as soon as you have it. And, Gunther-"
"Yes?"
"Assume we're going to have to use it."
Nicholson was loitering in the dining room with several of his passengers when his commlink vibrated. "Command call, sir,"said the AI's voice.
He excused himself and retreated to a private inner lounge. "Put it through, Lori."
Marcel Clairveau materialized. "Erik," he said, "I need your help." -
"Of course. What can I do for you?"
"You're aware that we have no assurances the people on the ground will ever be able to reach orbit."
"I understand the situation completely." To Nicholson, facing ruin and disgrace whatever he did, it was hard to get emotionally worked up. So he had to make an effort to show that he was dismayed.
"There might be another way to go. If we have to. It would be on the desperate side, but it would be prudent for us to be prepared." He paused, looking steadily into Nicholson's eyes. "We'll require your assistance."
"You know I'll do what I can."
"Good. We need some volunteers, especially anyone with experience working in space, any engineers, anybody who has helped with large-scale construction. And a welder. Or several welders. But we have to have at least one."
Nicholson shook his head, puzzled. "May I ask why, Captain?"
"Some of them, the ones who are willing, will be given a couple of days' training. Then, if we need to go ahead with the alternative plan, most of them will go outside."
"My God, Marcel." Nicholson's pulse began to pound. "Have you lost your mind?"
"We'll be very careful, Erik. We'll do it only as a last resort."
"I don't care how careful you plan to be. I'm not going to permit my passengers to be sent outside. You have any idea how Corporate would react if I allowed something like that?"
"Corporate might not be too upset if you succeeded in rescuing MacAllister."
"No, "he said. "It's out of the question."
Marcel's image gazed at him. "You understand there'll be an investigation when it's over. I'd have no choice but to file a complaint against you."
"File and be damned!" he said. "I won't let you risk my passengers."
When darkness fell Wendy reported that they'd covered another twenty-four kilometers. By far their best day yet. That was attributable largely to the fact that the ground had become easier, and both MacAllister and Nightingale seemed to be growing accustomed to the routine.
They stopped by a stream, caught some fish, and cooked them. MacAllister acted as taster this time. He swallowed a small piece and became almost immediately violently ill. They threw the rest back and used the last of the reddimeals.
MacAllister was still retching at midnight, when Jerry rose. (They'd all picked up his habit of referring to it by Morgan's first name. It seemed less threatening that way.) The disk was quite clear. It was in a half-moon phase.
The gas giant was well above the trees before his stomach settled down enough to let him sleep. By dawn he was back to his normal abrasive self. He refused Hutch's offer to give him a couple more hours to rest.
"No time," he said, directing their attention toward Morgan. "Clock's running."
They set off at a good pace. The assorted wounds from the battle on the river were healing. Nightingale had soaked his blisters in warm water and medications, so even he was feeling better.