Kaufman grunted and said, "Oh, sure. I'll leave that to the idiots in
the movies; that's the only place a man can ride a cylinder in space."
He turned to Morgan. "Thanks. Do as much for you some day."
"Hope you don't have to," Morgan answered. "Look, any throwing to be
done, you better leave it to Mac and me. We can't be fishing anyone
back if things get hot."
"Right," said Kaufman. "I'll do what I can to fend off anything they
throw at us." He sniffed. "Be simpler if we have a collision."
Morgan was staring to the left. He lifted a hand and pointed. "That
it?"
The others squinted in that direction. After a moment they saw the spot
of light moving swiftly up and across the black backdrop of the naked
sky. "Must be," said Kaufman. "Right time, right place. Must be."
Morgan promptly turned his back on the sun and closed his eyes; he
would need his best vision shortly now, and he wanted his pupils
dilated as much as possible. "Make anything out yet?" he said.
"No. Little brighter."
Morgan stood without moving. He could feel the heat on his back as his
suit seized the radiant energy from the sun and converted it to heat.
He grew warm at the back, yet his front remained cold. The sensation
was familiar, and Morgan sought to place it. Yes, that was it--a
fireplace. He felt as does a man who stands in a cold room with his
back toward a roaring fire. One side toasted, the other side frigid.
Funny, the homey sensations, even here.
"Damn face plate." It was Kaufman. He had scraped the front of his
helmet against the outside hatch a week ago. Since then the scratches
distracted him every time he wore the helmet.
Morgan waited, and the exultation seethed and bubbled and fumed.
"Anything?" he said.
"It's brighter," said McNary. "But--wait a minute, I can make it out.
They're outside, the three of them. I can just see them."
It was time. Morgan turned to face the approaching satellite. He
raised a hand to shield his face plate from the sun and carefully
opened his eyes. He shifted his hand into the proper position and
studied the other satellite.
It was like their own, even to the three men standing on it, except
that the three were spaced further apart.
"Any sign of a rifle or gun?" asked McNary.
"Not that I see," said Morgan. "They're not close enough to tell."
He watched the other satellite grow larger and he tried to judge
its course, but it was too far away. Although his eyes were on the
satellite, his side vision noted the bright-lit Earth below and the
stars beyond. A small part of his mind was amused by his own stubborn
egocentricity. Knowing well that he was moving and moving fast, he
still felt that he stood motionless while the rest of the universe
revolved around him. The great globe seemed to be majestically turning
under his rooted feet. The harsh brilliances that were the stars seemed
to sweep by overhead. And that oncoming satellite, it seemed not to
move so much as merely swell in size as he watched.
One of the tiny figures on the other satellite shifted its position
toward the others. Sensitive to the smallest detail, Morgan said, "He
didn't clear a line when he walked. No telephone. They're on radio. See
if we can find the frequency. Mac, take the low. Shorty, the medium.
I'll take the high."
Morgan reached to his helmet and began turning the channel selector,
hunting for the frequency the Russians were using. Kaufman found it. He
said, "Got it, I think. One twenty-eight point nine."
Morgan set his selector, heard nothing at first. Then hard in his
ear burst an unintelligible sentence with the characteristic fruity
diphthongs of Russian. "I think that's it," he said.
He watched, and the satellite increased in size. "No rifle or any other
weapon that I see," said Morgan. "But they _are_ carrying a lot of
extra oxygen bottles."
Kaufman grunted. McNary asked, "Can you tell if it's a collision course
yet? I can't."
Morgan stared at the satellite through narrowed eyes, frowning in
concentration. "I think not. I think it'll cross our bow twenty or
thirty feet out; close but no collision."
McNary's breath sounded loud in the helmet. "Good. Then we've nothing
but the men to worry about. I wonder how those boys pitch."
Another burst of Russian came over the radio, and with it Morgan felt
himself slip into the relaxed state he knew so well. No longer was the
anticipation rising. He was ready now, in a state of calm, a deadly and
efficient calm--ready for the test. This was how it always was with him
when the time came, and the time was now.
Morgan watched as the other satellite approached. His feet were apart
and his head turned sideways over his left shoulder. At a thousand
yards, he heard a mutter in Russian and saw the man at the stern start
moving rapidly toward the bow. His steps were long. Too long.
Morgan saw the gap appear between the man and the surface of the other
ship, saw the legs kicking in a futile attempt to establish contact
again. The radio was alive with quick, short sentences, and the two
men turned and began to work their way swiftly toward the bit of human
jetsam that floated near them.
"I'll be damned," said Kaufman. "They'll never make it."
Morgan had seen that this was true. The gap between floating man
and ship widened faster than the gap between men and floating man
diminished. Without conscious thought or plan, Morgan leaned forward
and pulled the jack on the telephone line from McNary's helmet. He
leaned back and did the same to Kaufman, straightened and removed his
own. He threw a quick knot and gathered the line, forming a coil in
his left hand and one in his right, and leaving a large loop floating
near the ship in front of him. He stepped forward to clear Kaufman, and
twisted his body far around to the right. There he waited, eyes fixed
on the other satellite. He crouched slightly and began to lean forward,
far forward. At the proper moment he snapped both his arms around to
throw the line, the left hand throwing high, the right low. All his
sailor's skill went into that heave. As the other satellite swept
past, the line flew true to meet it. The floating man saw it coming
and grabbed it and wrapped it around his hand and shouted into the
radio. The call was not needed; the lower portion of the line struck
one of the walking men. He turned and pulled the line into his arms and
hauled it tight. The satellite was barely past when the bit of human
jetsam was returning to its metallic haven. The two men became three
again, and they turned to face the American satellite. As one man the
three raised both arms and waved. Still without thinking, Morgan found
himself raising an arm with Kaufman and McNary and waving back.
He dropped his arm and watched the satellite shrink in size. The
calmness left him, replaced by a small spot of emptiness that grew
inside him, and grew and swelled and threatened to engulf him.
Passage was ended, but the taste in his mouth was of ashes and not of
glory.