_It had to come sooner or later--the
perilous moment when Our satellite
crossed the orbit of Theirs...._
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, October 1958.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The three men bent over the chart and once again computed the orbit. It
was quiet in the satellite, a busy quiet broken by the click of seeking
microswitches and the gentle purr of smooth-running motors. The deep
pulsing throb of the air conditioner had stopped: the satellite was in
the Earth's shadow and there was no need for cooling the interior.
"Well," said Morgan, "it checks. We'll pass within fifty feet of the
other satellite. Too close. Think we ought to move?"
Kaufman looked at him and did not speak. McNary glanced up and snorted.
Morgan nodded. He said, "That's right. If there's any moving to be
done, let them do it." He felt a curious nascent emotion, a blend
of anger and exhilaration--very faint now, just strong enough to be
recognizable. The pencil snapped in his fingers, and he stared at it,
and smiled.
Kaufman said, "Any way we can reline this a little? Fifty feet cuts it
kind of close."
They were silent, and the murmuring of machinery filled the cramped
room. "How's this?" said McNary. "Wait till we see the other satellite,
take a couple of readings on it, and compute the orbit again. We'd have
about five minutes to make the calculations. Morgan here can do it in
less than that. Then we'd know if we're on a collision course."
Morgan nodded. "We could do it that way." He studied the chart in front
of him. "The only thing, those boys on the other satellite will see
what we're doing. They'll know we're afraid of a collision. They'll
radio it down to Earth, and--you know the Russian mind--we'll lose
face."
"That so bad?" asked Kaufman.
Morgan stared at the chart. He answered softly, "Yes, I think it is.
The Russians will milk it dry if we make any move to get our satellite
out of the way of theirs. We can't do that to our people."
McNary nodded. Kaufman said, "Agree. Just wanted to throw it out. We
stay put. We hit, we hit."
The other two looked at Kaufman. The abrupt dismissal of a serious
problem was characteristic of the little astronomer; Kaufman wasted no
time with second guesses. A decision made was a fact accomplished; it
was over.
Morgan glanced at McNary to see how he was taking it. McNary, now, big
as he was, was a worrier. He stood ready to change his mind at any
time, whenever some new alternative looked better. Only the soundness
of his judgment prevented his being putty in any strong hands. He was a
meteorologist, and a good one.
"You know," said McNary, "I still can't quite believe it. Two
satellites, one pole-to-pole, the other equatorial, both having apogees
and perigees of different elevations--yet they wind up on what amounts
to a collision course."
Morgan said, "That's what regression will do for you. But we haven't
got any time for that; we've got to think this out. Let's see, they'll
be coming up from below us at passage. Can we make anything of that?"
There was silence while the three men considered it. Morgan's mind was
focussed on the thing that was about to happen; but wisps of memory
intruded. Faintly he could hear the waves, smell the bite in the salt
sea air. A man who had sailed a thirty-two-foot ketch alone into every
corner of the globe never thereafter quite lost the sound of the sea
in his ear. And the struggle, the duel, the strain of outguessing the
implacable elements, there was a test of a man....
"Better be outside in any case," said Kaufman. "Suited up and outside.
They'll see us, and know we intend to do nothing to avoid collision.
Also, we'll be in a better position to cope with anything that comes
along, if we're in the suits."
Morgan and McNary nodded, and again there was talk. They discussed
the desirability of radio communication with the other satellite, and
decided against it. To keep their own conversations private, they
agreed to use telephone communication instead of radio. When the
discussion trailed off, Kaufman said, "Be some picture, if we have the
course computed right. We stand there and wave at 'em as they go by."
Morgan tried to see it in his mind: three men standing on a long, slim
tube, and waving at three men on another. The first rocket passage, and
men waving. And then Morgan remembered something, and the image changed.
He saw the flimsy, awkward planes sputtering past each other on the
morning's mission. The pilots, detached observers, non-combatants
really, waved at each other as the rickety planes passed. Kindred souls
they were, high above the walks of normal men. So they waved ... for a
while.