Rick peered, and saw nothing but fuzzy points of starlight. The scene was steady now, but as minute followed minute he noticed that one point of light at the outside edge of the image area was creeping slowly across the screen. That was not a zoom effect. The moving point had to be a substantial asteroid. It was close to the Vantage compared with everything else, but it could not be CM-31. The ship’s telescope would surely be aimed to place the mine at the center of the field of view.
He focused his attention on that middle area, and was finally rewarded by the sight of a central point of light that came and went at random. The sensitive detectors of the ship’s imaging system must be picking up and displaying single photons. It was their first sight of the target mine.
Rick settled again into a near-trance. He did not think that he slept, but he did close his eyes occasionally. Each time he opened them there was a little more to see. Over minutes and hours the vagrant point of light gradually steadied, to become a pale silver dot, and then a blurry round disk. Soon the ship’s optics made an adjustment, trading magnification for contrast. It was possible to discern that the disk had a slight asymmetry, longer top to bottom than it was side to side.
Fifteen minutes more, and there was no doubt. Rick was looking at an oblong shape, longer than it was wide. It must be the mining cylinder enclosing the ore body of CM-31. But it was not the smoothly spinning regular figure shown in the simulations. There was a definite slow wobble to its motion, and part of the curved surface seemed darker than the rest.
“We have established contact with a maintenance module associated with CM-31.” Tom Garcia’s voice brought Rick’s attention away from the growing image. “Signals indicate two survivors on board the module. We have no indication of survivors on the main mining habitat. The module is running very low on air. The Vantage will end deceleration and achieve rendezvous in fourteen minutes. Personnel stand ready for emergency stations.”
“You heard that.” The distorted cylinder of CM-31 vanished and was replaced by Barney French’s impassive face. “Over the next ten minutes I will assign an emergency station to each apprentice. Do not—repeat, do not go to those stations until I tell you to do so. In thirteen minutes we will change from our present deceleration to a near-freefall environment. Remain in your bunk until that time. Once we are in freefall, unstrap yourself, make sure that you are dressed in regulation fashion, and remain in your cabin. Be prepared to move at once when I tell you to do so. Do not worry if you hear nothing more from me for the next few minutes. I will be addressing each one of you individually.”
CM-31 appeared again, close enough for a clear image to fill the projection screen. Rick was looking at a distorted shell, wobbling slowly around an off-center axis. A long split ran almost from end to end, revealing a dark interior. It looked as though the cylinder had burst, buckling outward. Where were the billions of tons of metallic ores that had been inside it? Where was the maintenance module, with its survivors? He could see no sign of it—no sign of anything resembling a ship or a life-support habitat. What had happened to the rest of the miners on CM-31?
“Luban,” Barney’s voice said suddenly over the intercom.
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know the location of Port A-3?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You will go there when we move to freefall, without waiting for further instructions. Put on a suit, and take your subsequent orders from Tait or Styan. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any questions?”
“No, sir.” Rick had a thousand, but this was no time to ask them.
“Very good.”
The intercom fell silent, leaving Rick in a ferment of nervousness and speculation. He had been in a suit often enough, that was not a problem. Some other fear—of dying, of failure, of loss of nerve—was tying his guts into a knot.
The image was still on the screen but he took little notice. He was mentally rehearsing, over and over—unstrapping himself, hurrying out of his cabin, swinging his way down to Port A-3. The module is running very low on air. That part of Tom Garcia’s message didn’t need explanation. The speed with which the crew of the Vantage acted could be the difference between life and death.
Freefall—sooner than expected. Rick was off his bunk and out of his cabin in seconds. He realized at once that his mental rehearsal was totally useless. He had missed the obvious—that a score of other apprentices would be scrambling through the same narrow passageways, all heading for different destinations.
He eased past Goggles Landau, past Skip Chung, past Lafe Eklund, all heading in the opposite direction. Chick Teazle, by some miracle, zipped past Rick going in the same direction. Deedee Mao and Alice Klein were standing together in the dining area, obviously waiting for somebody. Rick nodded at them and zoomed on, down to the lower ship level where Port A-3 was located. Vido Valdez was already there, working his way into a suit. Rick was oddly pleased to see him—he trusted Vido, maybe more than any other trainee. Rick put on his own suit, and they went through the thirty-six point sequence together, checking suit seals and functions.
Before they were done, Jigger Tait arrived. He was already in his own vacuum suit, complete with mobility pack.
“Radios on?” he said. And at their nods, “Good. I don’t expect you’ll be going outside, but if I need help I’ll holler. Here.” He handed each of them two squat oxygen cylinders. “Hang on to these, and stand by for cycling.”
They were clearly in emergency mode. The air pressure dropped three times as fast as usual, and even before vacuum was established the outer lock was opening. The remaining air puffed away. Rick, floating with the security of an anchor line, realized that he was at the very edge of open space. The deformed cylinder of CM-31 hung in front of him, huge and somehow ominous.
“There they are,” Jigger said. “Spitting distance. Hats off to Tom Garcia and Marlene Kotite. Be ready with the oxygen and wait here.”
Without another word he was away, jetting toward a small crab-shaped vessel poised in space no more than two hundred meters from the Vantage. Rick and Vido stood and stared. Five more suited figures were leaving the ship from some other exit lock. They all wore mobility packs. One of them was heading for the maintenance module, the other four were jetting off in the direction of CM-31’s cylindrical hulk. It was impossible to make individual identification, but everyone moved in space with the confidence and economy of long space experience.
Jigger and one other person had reached the crab-like maintenance module and were entering on its under side. Within seconds they had reappeared, each holding a suited figure. They jetted at once toward the Vantage. If they had said one word to each other, it was on a frequency not received by Rick and Vido.
They reached the lock, and Rick saw that the other person was Gina Styan. Still without a word, she and Jigger grabbed oxygen cylinders. They attached them to the suits of the two new arrivals. Jigger peered in through the visors. The eyes of the occupants, both women, were flickering open.
“All right,” said Jigger. “We sure cut it fine. I’m going to cycle the lock so we can flush carbon dioxide, but there’s no rush on that now.”
One of the women was giving him a weak thumbs-up sign.
“I’d better get back out there and secure the module,” Gina said. “Then I’ll see if they need any help over at the main facility.”