The antenna clusters did not respond. Hutch and Carson went out onto the hull and found what they had expected: the units had been scraped off in the collision. They jury-rigged repairs and installed a guidance system stripped from the bridge. They had brought out a portable transmitter and a booster, and tied everything together. The signal was prerecorded. It would be a simple SOS on the multichannel, centering on frequencies used by the Football. If there were aliens abroad in the system, they might not be able to read the signal, but it would clearly be artificial, and it would have to arouse their curiosity. And, maybe, bring them running. These were desperate measures, and no one had any real hope they would succeed. But it was all they had left.
They looked out across the same schizoid sky that one found all along the edge of the Orion Arm: a tapestry of stars to port, and a black river to starboard. Across the river,they could see the glow of the far shore.
"Ready?"
Carson's voice shook her out of her reverie. She activated the transmitter.
Carson nodded. "Okay. I hear it." Above them, light from the open shuttle bay hatch illuminated the underside of the A ring.
She tucked her equipment into a pouch. Carson had straightened, and stood watching the constellations rise and set around the curve of the ship. Silhouetted against the moving stars, he should have been a heroic figure. But he wore a white pullover with a little sail on the breast pocket, and a pair of fatigues. Despite his surroundings, he looked like a man out for a stroll.
Through the entire operation, her mind was on Maggie's arithmetic. Four people might make it.
That evening, Hutch sat up front watching the communication lamps on the main console. Distracted, discouraged, frightened, she felt overwhelmed, and was unaware she wasn't alone until she smelled coffee beside her.
Maggie.
"You okay?" Maggie's voice was controlled. Deliberately calm.
"I've been better."
"Me, too." She had something to say, but Hutch knew she'd get around to it in her own good time.
They stared out into the dark bay. "The Monument-Makers know about us by now. If they exist." Maggie held her cup to her lips.
"That's true."
"You know this is the first functional artifact we've found. Anywhere."
"I know."
"This is a historic trip." Another pull from the coffee. Maggie was nervous. "People will be reading about us for a long time to come."
Hutch didn't think she would look so good. She would rank right in there with the captains of the Titanic and the Regal.
"You ever been in serious trouble before?" asked Maggie. "Like this?"
"Not like this."
"Me, neither." Pause. "I don't think we're going to come out of it."
Hutch said nothing.
Maggie's eyes shaded away from her. "I can understand this has been harder on you than on the rest of us."
"It hasn't been very easy on anybody."
"Yeah." Her face was masked in the shadows. "Listen. I know you're blaming yourself."
"I'm okay." Hutch's voice shook. Tears were coming. She wanted to tell Maggie to go away.
"It isn't anybody's fault."
Maggie's hand brushed her cheek, and it was more than Hutch could stand. "I feel so helpless," she said.
"I know," said Maggie.
Janet Allegri, Diary
—— April 2, 2203 This is an odd time to start a diary. I've never done it before, never even considered it, and I may be down to my last few days. Still, I watch Maggie writing into her lightpad every evening, and she always looks calmer when she's finished, and God knows I'm scared silly and I need to tell somebody. I feel as if I should be doing something. Writing a will, maybe. I've neglected that, but I can't bring myself to begin it. Not now. Maybe it's too much of an admission.
I should probably make some recordings. There are people I need to say goodbye to. In case. But Tm not ready for that yet either.
I've been thinking a lot about my life the last few days, and I have to say that it doesn't seem to have had much point. I've done well professionally, and I've had a pretty good time. Maybe that's all you can reasonably ask. But tonight I keep thinking about things not done. Things not attempted because I was afraid of failing. Things not got around to. Thank God I had the chance to help Hutch throw her foamball. I hope it gets out. It's something I'd like to be remembered for.
(No second entry to the «Diary» is known to exist.)
We will have to pitch somebody over the side. Hutch had one of the divans that night, but she remained awake. If it had to be done, then 'twere well it were done quickly. And, though she shrunk from the necessity, though tears rolled down her cheeks, and cold fear paralyzed her, she understood well enough the ancient tradition: save her passengers, at whatever cost to herself. Without her, they had a chance.
Every moment she continued to breathe, she lengthened the odds against them.
Midway through the night, she found herself back in the pilot's seat, unsure how she had got there. Outside, the bay was black. Silent. Dimmed lights from the cockpit threw a glow across one of the cradle bars. Snowflakes drifted through the illumination.
The ship's air supply was freezing. Do it now. Get it over with. End it with dignity. Alpha had two air tanks. One was full, the other had already dropped off by an eighth.
Maybe she should wait until morning. Until her head was clear. Maybe then, somebody would find a way to talk her out of it. Maybe someone else would volunteer. She shook the idea away. Do it.
A pulser bolt would end it quickly. She got up, opened the storage compartment behind the rear seats. Two pulsers gleamed in the half-light. They had orange barrels and white stocks, and they were not too heavy even for a woman of Hutch's size. They were used primarily as tools, but had been designed so they could double as weapons.
She picked one up, almost casually. She charged it, and when it was done, and the little amber light pinged to green, she set it on her lap. Bright metal and black handgrips. She raised it, not intending to do it now, just to see how it felt, and pressed the muzzle beneath her left breast. Her index finger curled round the trigger. And again the tears came. Do it.
The drifting snow blurred. Be careful. If you make a mess of it, you could slice a hole through the shuttle. Kill everyone else too.
She realized suddenly that would happen anyway. The weapon had no setting low enough to ensure the vessel's safety. She would have to gc outside into the bay to do it right.
George, where are you?
She put the weapon down.
They had talked about their options before the lights went out. By now everyone understood that four people had a good chance at survival. And five had none. Hutch had said little. Carson took the moral high ground: / don't want to be rescued at the expense of seeing someone else die. No one disagreed, but she knew what they were really thinking. Really hoping.
Maybe they would get lucky: maybe the SOS would bring the Monument-Makers; maybe they could sleep a lot and use less oxygen. If anyone harbored resentment against Hutch, there was no hint. But she felt the weight of their eyes, of the occasional unguarded inflection.
Janet suggested a lottery. Write everybody's name on a piece of paper, put the pieces in a box, and draw one.
They looked guiltily at each other. And George's eyes had found Hutch, and she'd read what was in his mind: Don't worry. It won't come to this.
And Maggie: If we're going to do it, we need to get to it. This is a window that's going to close fast. And then two of us will have to go.
In the end, they postponed the discussion until morning.
But there was no way Hutch could face that tribunal. She pushed herself from her chair, picked up one of the Flickinger harnesses, sealed off the inner cabin, cycled the air out, and opened up.