II
Suddenly the world came to an end. There was a sheer drop-off onto the next face of the rough cube which was the asteroid. Bo lay on his belly and peered down the cliff, it ran for a couple of miles and beyond it were the deeps of space and the cold stars. He could dimly see the tortured swirl of crystallization patterns in the smooth bareness. No place to hide; his enemy was not there.
He turned the thought over in a mind which seemed stiff and slow. By crossing that little plain he was exposing himself to a shot from one of its edges. On the other hand, he could just as well be bushwhacked from a ravine as he jumped over. And this route was the fastest for completing his search scheme.
The Great Bear slid into sight, down under the world as it turned. He had often stood on winter nights, back in Sweden, and seen its immense sprawl across the weird flicker of aurora; but even then he wanted the spaceman’s experience of seeing it from above. Well, now he had his wish, and much good it had done him.
He went over the edge of the cliff, cautiously, for it wouldn’t take much of an impetus to throw him off this rock entirely. Then his helpless and soon frozen body would be just another meteor for the next million years. The vague downward sensation of gravity shifted insanely as he moved; he had the feeling that the world was tilting around him. Now it was the precipice which was a scarred black plain underfoot, reaching to a saw-toothed bluff at its farther edge.
He moved with flat low-gee bounds. Besides the danger of springing off the asteroid entirely, there was its low acceleration to keep a man near the ground; jump up a few feet and it would take you a while to fall back. It was utterly silent around him. He had never thought there could be so much stillness.
He was halfway across when the bullet came. He saw no flash, heard no crack, but suddenly the fissured land before him exploded in a soundless shower of chips. The bullet ricocheted flatly, heading off for outer space. No meteor gravel, that!
Bo stood unmoving an instant, fighting the impulse to leap away. He was a spaceman, not a rockhound; he wasn’t used to this environment, and if he jumped high he could be riddled as he fell slowly down again. Sweat was cold on his body. He squinted, trying to see where the shot had come from.
Suddenly he was zigzagging off across the plain toward the nearest edge. Another bullet pocked the ground near him. The sun rose, a tiny heatless dazzle blinding in his eyes.
Fire crashed at his back. Thunder and darkness exploded before him. He lurched forward, driven by the impact. Something was roaring, echoes clamorous in his helmet. He grew dimly aware that it was himself. Then he was falling, whirling down into the black between the stars.
There was a knife in his back, it was white-hot and twisting between the ribs. He stumbled over the edge of the plain and fell, waking when his armor bounced a little against stone.
Breath rattled in his throat as he turned his head. There was a white plume standing over his shoulder, air streaming out through the hole and freezing its moisture. The knife in him was not hot, it was cold with an ultimate cold.
Around him, world and stars rippled as if seen through heat, through fever. He hung on the edge of creation by his fingertips, while chaos shouted beneath.
Theoretically, one man can run a spaceship, but in practice two or three are required for nonmilitary craft. This is not only an emergency reserve, but a preventive of emergencies, for one man alone might get too tired at the critical moments. Bo knew he wouldn’t be allowed to leave Achilles without a certified partner, and unemployed spacemen available for immediate hiring are found once in a Venusian snowfall.
Bo didn’t care the first day. He had taken Johnny out to Helmet Hill and laid him in the barren ground to wait, unchanging now, till Judgement Day. He felt empty then, drained of grief and hope alike, his main thought a dull dread of having to tell Johnny’s father when he reached Luna. He was too slow and clumsy with words; his comforting hand would only break the old man’s back. Old Malone had given six sons to space, Johnny was the last; from Saturn to the sun, his blood was strewn for nothing.
It hardly seemed to matter that the Guards office reported itself unable to find the murderer. A single Venusian should have been easy to trace on Achilles, but he seemed to have vanished completely.
Bo returned to the transient quarters and dialed Valeria McKittrick. She looked impatiently at him out of the screen. “Well,” she said, “what’s the matter? I thought we were blasting today.”
“Hadn’t you heard?” asked Bo. He found it hard to believe she could be ignorant, here where everybody’s life was known to everybody else. “Johnny’s dead. We can’t leave.”
“Oh … I’m sorry. He was such a nice little man—I’ve been in the lab all the time, packing my things, and didn’t know.” A frown crossed her clear brow. “But you’ve got to get me back. I’ve engaged passage to Luna with you.”
“Your ticket will be refunded, of course,” said Bo heavily. “But you aren’t certified, and the Sirius is licensed for no less than two operators.”
“Well … damn! There won’t be another berth for weeks, and I’ve got to get home. Can’t you find somebody?”
Bo shrugged, not caring much. “I’ll circulate an ad if you want, but—”
“Do so, please. Let me know.” She switched off.
Bo sat for a moment thinking about her. Valeria McKittrick was worth considering. She wasn’t beautiful in any conventional sense but she was tall and well built; there were good lines in the strong high boned face, and her hair was a cataract of spectacular red. And brains, too … you didn’t get to be a physicist with the Union’s radiation labs for nothing. He knew she was still young, and that she had been on Achilles for about a year working on some special project and was now ready to go home.
She was human enough, had been to most of the officers’ parties and danced and laughed and flirted mildly, but even the dullest rockhound gossip knew she was too lost in her work to do more. Out here a woman was rare, and a virtuous woman unheard-of; as a result, unknown to herself, Dr. McKittrick’s fame had spread through more thousands of people and millions of miles than her professional achievements were ever likely to reach.
Since coming here, on commission from the Lunar lab, to bring her home, Bo Jonsson had given her an occasional wistful thought. He liked intelligent women, and he was getting tired of rootlessness. But of course it would be a catastrophe if he fell in love with her because she wouldn’t look twice at a big dumb slob like him. He had sweated out a couple of similar affairs in the past and didn’t want to go through another.
He placed his ad on the radinews circuit and then went out to get drunk. It was all he could do for Johnny now, drink him a final wassail. Already his friend was cold under the stars. In the course of the evening he found himself weeping.
He woke up many hours later. Achilles ran on Earth time but did not rotate on it; officially, it was late at night, actually the shrunken sun was high over the domes. The man in the upper bunk said there was a message for him; he was to call one Einar Lundgard at the Comet Hotel soonest.
The Comet! Anyone who could afford a room to himself here, rather than a kip in the public barracks, was well fueled. Bo swallowed a tablet and made his way to the visi and dialed. The robo-clerk summoned Lundgard down to the desk.
It was a lean, muscular face under close cropped brown hair which appeared in the screen. Lundgard was a tall and supple man, somehow neat even without clothes. “Jonsson,” said Bo. “Sorry to get you up, but I understood—”
“Oh, yes. Are you looking for a spaceman? I heard your ad and I’m available.”
Bo felt his mouth gape open. “Huh? I never thought—”
“We’re both lucky, I guess.” Lundgard chuckled. His English had only the slightest trace of accent, less than Bo’s. “I thought I was stashed here too for the next several months.”
“How does a qualified spaceman happen to be marooned?”
“I’m with Fireball, was on the Drake—heard of what happened to her?”
Bo nodded, for every spaceman knows exactly what every spaceship is doing at any given time. The Drake had come to Achilles to pick up a cargo of refined thorium for Earth; while she lay in orbit, she had somehow lost a few hundred pounds of reaction-mass water from a cracked gasket. Why the accident should have occurred, nobody knew … spacemen were not careless about inspections, and what reason would anyone have for sabotage? The event had taken place about a month ago, when the Sirius was already enroute here; Bo had heard of it in the course of shop talk.
“I thought she went back anyway,” he said.
Lundgard nodded. “She did. It was the usual question of economics. You know what refined fuel water costs in the Belt; also, the delay while we got it would have carried Earth and Achilles past optimum position, which’d make the trip home that much more expensive. Since we had one more man aboard than really required, it was cheaper to leave him behind; the difference in mass would make up for the fuel loss. I volunteered, even suggested the idea, because … well, it happened during my watch, and even if nobody blamed me I couldn’t help feeling guilty.”
Bo understood that kind of loyalty. You couldn’t travel space without men who had it.
“The Company beamed a message: I’d stay here till their schedule permitted an undermanned ship to come by, but that wouldn’t be for maybe months,” went on Lundgard. “I can’t see sitting on this lump that long without so much as a chance at planetfall bonus. If you’ll take me on, I’m sure the Company will agree; I’ll get a message to them on the beam right away.”
“Take us a while to get back,” warned Bo. “We’re going to stop off at another asteroid to pick up some automatic equipment, and won’t go into hyperbolic orbit till after that. About six weeks from here to Earth, all told.”
“Against six months here?” Lundgard laughed; it emphasized the bright charm of his manner. “Sunblaze. I’ll work for free.”
“No need to. Bring your papers over tomorrow, huh?”
The certificate and record were perfectly in order, showing Einar Lundgard to be a Spacetech 1/cl with eight years’ experience, qualified as engineer, astronaut, pilot, and any other of the thousand professions which have run into one. They registered articles and shook hands on it. “Call me Bo. It really is my name … Swedish.”
“Another squarehead, eh?” grinned Lundgard. “I’m from South America myself.”
“Notice a year’s gap here,” said Bo, pointing to the service record. “On Venus.”
“Oh, yes. I had some fool idea about settling but soon learned better. I tried to farm, but when you have to carve your own land out of howling desert—Well, let’s start some math, shall we?”
They were lucky, not having to wait their turn at the station computer; no other ship was leaving immediately. They fed it the data and requirements, and got back columns of numbers: fuel requirements, acceleration times, orbital elements. The figures always had to be modified, no trip ever turned out just as predicted, but that could be done when needed with a slipstick and the little ship’s calculator.
Bo went at his share of the job doggedly, checking and re-checking before giving the problem to the machine; Lundgard breezed through it and spent his time while waiting for Bo in swapping dirty limericks with the tech. He had some good ones.
The Sirius was loaded, inspected, and cleared. A “scooter” brought her three passengers up to her orbit, they embarked, settled down, and waited. At the proper time, acceleration jammed them back in a thunder of rockets.
Bo relaxed against the thrust, thinking of Achilles falling away behind them. “So long,” he whispered. “So long, Johnny.”