Fortunately the water tank could function at a very low pressure. If he ensured the pressure stayed low, maybe he would be okay. The reactor provided power to several generators, and they seemed intact. The electrical power was used to separate the water into hydrogen and oxygen — these tanks were highly pressurized and intact — and mixed the gases in the rocket propulsion system. The generators also provided power for the antigravity system. A display on the panel was wrecked, but there were three more, which should be enough. Apparently none of the antiprotons had met a proton in the reactor. If it had, there should be a detectable radiation leak.
Of course, if he powered up the reactor and there was actually was internal damage from antiprotons or the crash into the ocean, Adam Solo and everyone else on this salvage ship would soon be dead.
Solo rubbed his chin as he glanced around one more time.
Well, there was only one way to find out.
Solo retrieved the headband that was still wrapped around the dead Frenchman’s head. He wiped it off without emotion and put it on his own head.
“Hello, Eternal Wanderer. Let us examine the health of your systems.” Before him, the instrument panel exploded into life.
The first mate, DeVries, strolled the bridge with the helm on autopilot. The rest of the small crew of Atlantic Queen, including the captain, were in their bunks asleep. The rain had stopped, and a sliver of moon was peeping through the clouds overhead. The mate had always enjoyed the ethereal beauty of the night and the way the ship rode the restless, living sea. He was soaking in the sensations, occasionally strolling across the bridge from one wing to the other and periodically checking the radar display and compass, when he noticed the glow from the saucer’s cockpit.
The spaceship took up so much of the deck that the cockpit canopy was almost even with the bridge windows. As the mate stared into the cockpit, he saw the figure of Adam Solo. He reached for the bridge binoculars. Turned the focus wheel.
Solo’s face appeared, lit by a subdued light source in front of him. The mate assumed that the light came from the instruments — computer presentations — and he was correct. DeVries could see the headband, which looked exactly like the kind the Indians wore in old cowboy movies. Solo’s face was expressionless … no, that wasn’t true, the mate decided. He was concentrating intensely.
Obviously the saucer was more or less intact or it wouldn’t have electrical power. Whoever designed that thing sure knew what he was about. He or she. Or it. Whoever that was, wherever that was …
Finally the mate’s arms tired and he lowered the binoculars.
He snapped the binoculars into their bracket and went back to pacing the bridge. Occasionally he glanced at the saucer’s glowing cockpit. The moon, the clouds racing overhead, the ship pitching and rolling monotonously — it seemed as if he were trapped in this moment in time and this was all there had ever been or ever would be. It was a curious feeling … almost mystical.
Surprised at his own thoughts, DeVries shook his head and tried to concentrate on his duties.
Adam Solo used the onboard computers to examine the state of every system in the saucer. The long-range communications equipment refused to come online or self-test. He opened the access plate under the instrument panel and stuck his head in. He found the modules he wanted … and found himself staring at one bulged box.
An antiproton exploded in there.
He backed out and closed the panel, then slowly climbed back into the pilot’s seat, fighting back his disappointment. Well, there was nothing for it but to play the cards he had.
Thirty minutes later, satisfied that the comm gear and one instrument display were the only casualties, he opened the hatch and dropped to the deck. He closed the hatch behind him, just in case, and went below to his cabin. No one was in the passageways. Nor did he expect to find any of the crew there. He glanced into one of the crew’s berthing spaces. The glow of the tiny red lights revealed that every bunk was full, and every man seemed to be snoring.
In his cabin Solo quickly packed his bag. He stripped the sheets and blankets from his bunk and, carrying the lot, went back up on deck. Careful to stay out of sight of the bridge, he stowed his gear in the saucer. Spreading the blankets on the cockpit floor, he carefully laid the remains of the French fighter pilot on the sheet and wrapped them tight. Using a roll of duct tape, he bound the bundle as tightly as he could and eased it through the open hatch.
Adam Solo unfastened one of the chains that bound the saucer to the deck and wrapped it around the bundle. As he dragged it to the rail, he said, “You probably weren’t the first man to die in that ship, but I hope you’re the last.” With that he pushed the bundle over the side. The mortal remains of Jean-Paul Lalouette disappeared with a tiny splash.
A hose lay coiled near a water faucet, one the crew routinely used to wash mud from cables and chains coming aboard. Solo looked at it, then shook his head. The water intake was on top of the saucer; climbing up there would expose him to the man on the bridge, and would be dangerous besides. He had come so far, had waited so long — now would be a bad time to fall overboard, which would doom him to inevitable drowning.
He removed the tie-down chains and restraining straps one by one, lowering them gently to the deck so the sound wouldn’t reverberate through the steel ship.
Finally, when he had the last one off, he stood beside the saucer, with it between him and the bridge, and studied the position of the crane and hook, the mast and guy wires. Satisfied, Adam Solo stooped and went under the saucer and up through the hatch.
The first mate was checking the GPS position and the recommended course to Sandy Hook when he felt the subtle change in the ship’s motion. An old hand at sea, he noticed it immediately and looked around.
The saucer was there, immediately in front of the bridge — but it was higher, the lighted canopy several feet above where it had previously been. He could see Solo’s head, now seated in the pilot’s chair. The saucer was moving, or seemed to be, rocking back and forth. Actually it was stationary — the ship was moving in the sea way.
DeVries’ first impression was that the ship’s motion had changed because the saucer’s weight was gone, but he was wrong. The antigravity rings in the saucer had pushed it away from the ship, which still supported the entire mass of the machine. The center of gravity was higher, so consequently the ship rolled with more authority.
At that moment Harrison Douglas came up the ladder, moving carefully with a cup of coffee in his hand.
He saw DeVries staring out the bridge windows, transfixed.
Douglas turned to follow DeVries’ gaze and found himself looking at Adam Solo’s head inside the saucer. Solo was too engrossed in what he was doing to even glance at the bridge. For only a few seconds was the saucer suspended over the deck. As the salvage ship came back to an even keel the saucer moved toward the starboard side, pushing the ship dangerously in that direction. Then the saucer went over the rail and the ship, free of the saucer’s weight, rolled port with authority.
“No!” Douglas roared. “Come back here, Solo! It’s mine. Mine, I tell you, mine!” He dropped his coffee cup and strode to the door that led to the wing of the bridge. He flung it open and stepped out. The mate was right behind him. Both men grabbed the rail with both hands as the wind and sea spray tore at them.