"Ship's meals this evening will be served compliments of Inter-Galactic Lines. Happy hour will begin, as usual, at five. If you have any questions, my officers will be available throughout the ship.
"Thank you very much for your patience during a difficult period. Be assured we will keep you informed as matters develop."
Within minutes after the captain's address, Marcel arrived with several people in tow. They were the team of mathematicians and physicists who were planning the backup mission. They were escorted to the temporary command center Nicholson had set up.
Nicholson sat quietly while they talked of releasing the asteroid, detaching a shaft and the net from the rest of the assembly, rotating it almost 360 degrees, and putting it on a trajectory for Deepsix. They traced the anticipated changes in stress on the shaft when the rest of
the assembly was removed. They calculated how they could use four superluminals to rotate the shaft without breaking it.
The ideal length.for the shaft, they determined, would be 420 kilometers. The shaft would be removed from the asteroid end, said a tall, athletic-looking man introduced as John Something-or-Other, smiling at his feeble attempt to make a joke.
When they'd finished, there were several questions. Nicholson himself asked one: "Are we sure that a weld between the shaft, which must be made of a substance none of us has ever heard of, and the hull of a starship, will take?"
"It'll work," said a small, waspish young man. "We've already tried it."
The conversation became sufficiently technical that Nicholson couldn't follow it any longer, and after a while he slipped out. They all seemed to know what they were doing. Maybe there'd be a reasonably happy ending at that. Maybe he could even emerge as a hero.
They sent a shuttle for Tom, and he hadn't been gone twenty minutes before Embry discovered she did not like being alone on Wild-side. The ship was full of echoes and vokes. Of systems clicking on and shutting off. Of the sound of warm air flowing through blowers and ducts. Of the onboard electronic systems talking incessantly to themselves. Bill the AI inquired whether she was okay, and she had to say yes or he'd want to diagnose her problem. She couldn't even ignore him because he would simply repeat the query, and he had endless patience.
It had endless patience. Best to keep the details straight.
She was not among those people who could entertain herself carrying on a conversation with an AI. Bill was, after all, only a simulation, not a real person. A lot of people tended to lose sight of that fact, and she'd had to refer several of them to the shrinks.
She was up front on the flight deck, seated in the pilot's chair. Deepsix lay below her, a mass of oceans and glaciers save for the narrow green-brown belt along the equator. A huge snowstorm blanketed the continent they called Northern Tempus.
None of the other three ships was in the sky. She felt utterly alone. They'd invited her to move over to Wendy, but she'd declined. Packing was inconvenient, and anyhow she'd have to come back here if the rescue was successful. After all, it would only be a matter of a few days.
If things went badly, on the other hand, God knew when she could expect to get home. She didn't want to seem indifferent, or cold-hearted, but she also didn't want to spend the winter out here. If Hutch and the others were lost, another long delay would be likely, lasting probably several more weeks, while a new pilot came to Maleiva to recover Wildside.
Her link vibrated. She was grateful for the interruption. "Yes?" she said.
"Embry." Marcel's image popped up on one of the auxiliary screens. "How are you making out?"
"Okay."
"I need a favor."
"What can I do for you?"
"If we have to go to the backup operation, we'll need all four ships. And we have to get set up so we'll be ready to launch if needed. What I'm trying to tell you is that Wildside is going to be doing some maneuvering."
"There's no pilot over here, Marcel."
"I know. We're going to have Lori operate her."
"Who's Lori?"
"The Star's AI."
"The Star's AI? What's wrong with Bill?"
"It's a long story. I'll be happy to tell you about it when we get time."
"Is it safe?"
"Sure. Now, can I get you to punch a code into the command console? It's right in front of the pilot's seat."
"The black panel with the blinking lamps?"
"That's it." He gave her a string of numbers, and she dutifully entered them. "That allows me to talk directly with the AI," he said. His eyes narrowed somewhat. "Now, you're sure you're doing okay?"
"I'm fine, Captain."
"Good. So you know: Tomorrow we're going to take Wildside out of orbit. You'll be going out to the skyhook assembly with the rest of us. There'll be a lot of activity when we get there, and we'll be putting some people aboard your ship. You don't have to do anything. Just sit tight. There's no danger."
"You mean to me. What about Hutch? What are her chances?"
"The truth?"
"Of course."
"I'd say the chances are decent."
He blinked off, and she sat staring at the blank screen. Then she opened a channel to the Evening Star, A young, female, redheaded simulation in the ship's uniform appeared. "Good morning," it said. "How may I help you?"
"When is the Star returning to Earth?"
"We are scheduled to depart Sunday the tenth, ma'am." The day after the collision.
"Would it be possible to book passage?"
The simulation appeared to glance at a monitor, although Embry knew that was not necessary. "Yes, it would," she said. "We have several excellent staterooms on our Festival Deck. Can I reserve one for you?"
With luck, she'd be able to bully the Academy into picking up the tab. "How much?" she asked.
"One-ten."
Steep. "I'll get back to you if I decide to do it," she said. No need to commit now. If everything went well, and the rescue worked, she wouldn't need it. And it would be a little embarrassing to be sitting over on the Star when Hutch and the others came back on board.
XIX
There's not much to differentiate one savage from another, whether you find him in a jungle or on the streets of a modem city. They are best left to themselves, and are worth serious study only by those interested in manufacturing a better blowgun. -Gregory MacAllister, The Modern World and Good Luck
Hours to breakup (est): 129
"Evening Star. How may we be of service?"
"This is John Drummond. On the Wendy Jay. I wonder if you could provide thrust information for the Star?"
"That would be no problem. Ship specifications are available. Please submit a transmission code."
The electronics wizard they were looking for turned out to be little more than an adolescent His name was Philip Zossimov. He was a product of the University of Moscow who served as a consultant to the British firm Technical Applications, Ltd. He had thick brown hair, a quiet demeanor, and an expression that implied he could do anything.
Beekman explained how they planned to manage the rescue. "But," he said, "we need to find a way to hold the mouth of the net open."
Zossimov asked to see pictures of the asteroid. "How are you arranging to get rid of it?" he asked. "The asteroid?"
"After we cut through the net," Beekman said, "it will drift off on its own. We can make adjustments if it would help you in your task."
"No," he said. "Go ahead as you intend. But you'll need a ring-shaped collar. I don't suppose you happen to have one?"
"No. That's why we needed you."
"Yes. Very good. All right, we'll have to make one." He looked around at the working staff, obviously unimpressed. "It's a two-part problem," he said. "We install the collar at the front of the net to hold it open, and then, once the lander is inside, we have to close it to make sure it stays inside."