Turning abruptly, Dr. Spartan went back into his ivory tower.
_Chapter 9_
Gail and Axel went aft to see what could be done about fixing the
water-cycling machinery. I helped Morrie adjust his spacesuit in
silence.
Although I felt that he had not been sane when he attacked Gail, I
couldn't forgive his actions. I don't suppose he felt forgiving toward
me. I was sure he hated me for stopping him from taking Gail, even
though he appeared to be remorseful over his actions.
Before I put the helmet over his head, he said, "I--I wasn't myself,
Bill. I want you to realize that. And try to make Gail see it that way."
"She'll accept your apology later," I said, "but get one thing
straight, Grover. If you ever make another pass at her, whether you're
sane or not, I'll kill you in spite of hell and Doc Spartan."
He bit his lip. "Can't blame you for feeling that way. You do love her,
don't you?"
"You're damn right," I said. "Even before we were married I loved her."
His helmet was fastened and he stepped into the locks. I closed the
door, ready to use the walkie-talkie transmitter for any messages. Dr.
Spartan reappeared. "Grover will need welding equipment to fix that
motor," he said. "Did he take it with him?"
"No, sir," I said.
"Then get it and take it out to him," said Spartan, turning and going
back to his cabin.
I shrugged. I hadn't been sentenced to repair the tubes, as Morrie had,
but I still had to obey orders. I got the equipment and a tool bag from
the storage compartment of the machine room. When I told Gail and Axel
I was taking welding equipment out to Morrie, Axel gave me a worried
look. "Don't start anything, Bill," he said.
"We have an understanding," I replied.
Returning to the main cabin, I found Dr. Spartan waiting again, an
oxygen tank in his hands.
"Here's the tank I want you to use, Drake," he said. "There's just a
small amount of oxygen in it, but to use a new tank for such a short
errand would be wasteful. We don't know when we might have another
accident."
"Okay. I mean--yes, sir," I said.
"I trust you and Grover won't resume--uh--hostilities."
"No, sir. I'm sure he wasn't himself, sir."
While I put on my helmet, Spartan put the tank on my shoulders. I
checked the connections, then I went into the locks. I started the
pumps to exhaust the air and called to Morrie on my helmet transmitter.
"I'm bringing some welding equipment, Morrie."
He didn't answer.
"Do you read me, Morrie?" I called.
Still no answer. I called a third time and when Morrie didn't seem to
hear, I grew apprehensive.
"Morrie!"
I knew something was wrong now. He should have heard me. Sometimes a
man will switch off his transmitter, but he always keeps his receiver
on. The locks were emptied of air and I swung open the outer door. I
fastened a lifeline to my belt and fitted the hasp of the other end to
a ring just outside the door.
Then I pivoted around the door frame and planted my magnetized boots
against the metal side of the ship. They stuck, and I started to walk
around the craft toward motor No. Five.
I found Morrie Grover beside the engine, standing like a statue, his
hands raised--thrown out by centrifugal force--as if some unseen bandit
had ordered him to stick 'em up.
His unnatural position and his failure to answer my calls was enough
to convince me that something was radically wrong. He was unconscious
or--I tried not to think of the alternative.
What was wrong? Only a meteor could have hurt him here and we'd long
since passed through that cloud. I knew the chance of being hit by one
was so remote that it wasn't likely to occur in a couple of hundred
years.
I stepped over the metal housing of the bank of motors between myself
and Morrie. His body looked weird in the sunlight, going into phases
like a man-shaped moon, with each revolution of the ship. Half his
figure was black, half gleaming like a star. And then, as the sun
peeped through the glass of his helmet, I saw a contorted face, open
mouth, and staring, sightless eyes.
Sure that he was dead, I stepped to his side and peered down at the
oxygen gauge on his chest, worn upside down so that it would be visible
to Morrie. The tank was nearly full, but the needle didn't wiggle as it
would have done if Morrie had been breathing. He was dead, all right.
"Dr. Spartan!" I called.
No answer came through my earphones. I called again. Apparently, Dr.
Spartan wasn't listening, nor was anyone else. I felt the urge to walk
to the nearest video camera and wave my arms so that Joel would see me
in the control room. Instead, I decided to take Morrie's body to the
locks--quickly, in case there was still some spark of life in the man.
The tool kit I'd brought topside wasn't magnetized and would be thrown
into space by the rotation of the ship. I opened the bag, took the
pliers and cut two short lengths from Morrie's life line. One I used
to lash the tools to the motor housings, and the other I fastened from
Morrie's belt to mine, leaving about eight feet of slack between us.
Then I replaced the pliers, closed the tool kit and was ready to move.
Dragging Morrie and his magnetized boots back to the locks would be
hard work, especially since I'd have to pull myself the same distance.
So I lifted him off the deck and then, holding his weightless body over
my shoulder, doubled my knees and jumped upward.
I sailed outward--or, if you choose, upward--for the ship, myself and
Morrie, and the sun, formed a right angle, if you're interested in the
geometry of our positions. The sun was toward the rear of the ship and
about thirty degrees to the right, when you looked toward the tail of
the craft. This geometry was presently going to become very important
to my future existence.
It seemed as if I were sailing a great distance, although distance is
difficult to judge in space when there's nothing to mark it. I had
perhaps fifty feet of life line and it wasn't until I was certain I'd
gone much further that I began to grow worried.
Then I looked down. The thin copper wire which had secured me to the
ship was no longer fastened to the ring just outside the locks. It was
being pulled upward and Morrie and I were swinging around each other
like twin stars around a common center of gravity. The centrifugal
force of our motion was swinging the wire with it.
I just couldn't explain it. There was a hasp at the end of the line
which shouldn't have come unfastened. The line could hardly have
broken. It was meant to stand a great deal of strain and there had been
none. Not only were we weightless, but I hadn't to my knowledge, put
any strain on the wire during the entire time.
My push outward--or upward--had been translated into a motion away from
the ship and I would continue in that direction forever unless some
force were applied to stop me. The only force I was subject to was the
gravitational pull of the sun, which meant I'd revolve around the sun
forever, never to return to the Jehad.
But there was another motion, too, and this was the velocity of
the ship at the moment I had broken away from it. This carried me
forward--which to me was in the general direction of the orbit of Mars.
However, my relationship to the ship was not permanent. The ship was
being constantly accelerated, second by second, by the thrust of the
plasma motors. Even as I looked down, my heart freezing with horror at
the thought of never being able to return to the Jehad, I could see the
ship inching forward. The right triangle had become acute and presently
I'd be behind the ship.
Even in this tense moment my mind was demanding explanations, even
fantastic ones. What had happened? If the hasp couldn't unfasten
itself, if the line couldn't have broken, something must have broken
it or unfastened the hasp. What? Morrie's ghost, vowing vengeance for
whatever fancied wrong I'd done to him in the machinery cabin? Or
Spartan? Or something else?
These thoughts occupied only a second because I had to get busy and,
as Morrie and I whirled around in our ghostly dance in space, I
reached for the petcock of my oxygen flask. Just as I touched it, a
warning shot through my mind: Spartan had given me a tank with only a
small amount of oxygen in it, therefore he had to be the one who was
trying to get rid of me. He had released my line, knowing I'd take the
quickest way back to the locks, rather than to clamber over the sides.
Small comfort, this sudden discovery. I realized that since I had a
minimum supply of oxygen to breathe, it would be suicidal to use any
part of it for jetting back to the ship, which was pulling farther and
farther ahead.
Across from me, sailing round and round like a devil's carousel, Morrie
seemed to grin as the sunlight struck his helmet again. He was dead and
had plenty of air, he seemed to say. I was alive and hadn't enough.
And that grin was what did it. I realized he had enough to get us both
back--if I acted quickly.
I pulled him toward me. It was difficult to twist him around, more
difficult to turn him toward the ship. Finally I succeeded in pointing
him right and I thumbed open the jet petcock at the base of his oxygen
equipment.
He shot forward, but the line attached to both our belts made him
somersault, and there was a tug on the thin strand that tied us
together. He was pulling me _away_ from the ship, putting more distance
between me and safety. For him, it didn't matter.
Quickly I pulled him back. I grabbed both his legs, like the handles of
a wheelbarrow, and pointed him toward the ship, which with each second
was getting farther and farther away. How far I had no idea because, as
I said, distances are hard to judge in space.
Now the air jet was shoving us forward, accelerating us toward the
ship. I hoped it would match the ship's acceleration but I couldn't
tell at first. Then I laughed out loud. My voice made a hollow sound in
my ears. We _were_ gaining. Just a tiny bit, but the ship was getting
larger. Now the question was, did I have enough air on Morrie's back to
carry us to the ship? The air jet was intended for only short bursts,
such as I'd used when I crossed from the Saturn capsule to the Jehad.
Now I needed continued acceleration.
The thin vapor stream from the flask continued and now we were above
the stern of the ship, where Gail's quarters had been established. Then
the rush of air didn't seem quite as strong--we weren't creeping up as
fast.
The air locks weren't far ahead, but we were above the ship, maybe two
hundred yards away. Morrie's life line, the part still attached to the
ship after I cut him loose, was whirling around with the ship, thrown
out to its full length by the rotation. Whoever had released my line
hadn't bothered Morrie's. Maybe the killer knew Morrie was dead--or
maybe his object was only to kill _me_.
I steered down, hoping to get close enough to grab the line. Then the
oxygen fizzled out. No more vapor came from the tank. It was empty and
I couldn't quite reach the line. It was just a foot or two beyond me.
In desperation I gave Morrie a push and then praised God for Isaac
Newton's action and reaction. The shove I gave Morrie was sufficient
to push me back so that my free hand caught the line. I grabbed it and
held on.
A couple of moments later I was pulling myself hand over hand toward
the locks.
Just as I reached the locks, they opened. A hand stretched out, grasped
my arm and pulled Morrie and me inside. I detached the life lines.
It was Axel Ludson, standing there in a spacesuit.
Instantly, all the suspicions I'd had in space crystallized. Axel had
unfastened the life line!
I watched him close the locks and turn the valve that would presently
fill the locks with air. "How long have you been here, Axel?" I
demanded.
He turned, but didn't answer. His eyes focused, from within the helmet,
on Morrie's body, planted to the floor of the locks by magnetic boots,
swaying lifelessly as the ship rotated on its axis. "What's wrong with
him? Did he pass out?"
"Dead." I said.
Axel gave me the same kind of a look I must have given him when I
wondered about the life line. He was thinking of the fight between
Morrie and me. "How'd it happen?" he asked quietly.
"Your guess is as good as mine," I said. "I found him that way. And
somebody tried to kill me, Axel. Didn't you see how my line was loose
and how I was drifting in space?"
He shook his head, then reached down and examined my life line on the
floor. The hasp was on the end. Someone had unfastened it. "I looked
out the port and saw you pulling yourself in. I thought it was _your_
life line," he said.
"It was Morrie's. I had to cut it to lash the tools topside."
Axel didn't seem to believe me. Now he examined the section of line I'd
used to tie Morrie and me together. Apparently satisfied, he went to
look at the air gauge. A breathable amount of air was in the locks--we
took off our helmets. Then we worked Morrie's loose. He was dead, all
right. Dead and cold.
Axel examined Morrie's helmet. His fingers probed inside where the
valve from the air supply enters.
"Stuck valve," he said.