Flight coveralls are designed to be airtight when fully zipped. Hoods
with transparent face-plates and oxygen leads can be hermetically
sealed to the collars, and every ship has emergency plug-ins for the
oxygen tubes. In combat, all spacemen keep their hoods thrown back,
like mackinaw hoods, so that if a hole is blown in the hull, they can
slip the hoods on and plug into the emergency oxygen supply. Struggling
into a full-dress spacesuit is too complicated a job to entrust to the
few frantic minutes that spell the difference between life and death,
and meanwhile, the coveralls are far more comfortable in flight.
Besides, anyone who'd seen what a spacesuit does to a figure like
Pat's will agree that it's a dirty shame.
While Pat was climbing into her outfit, I was outlining the plan we'd
have to follow. As long as I was going to go along with this offer of
hers, temporarily, at least, I might as well do it right.
"I got into a cab accident, or something," I said. "That accounts for
the shape I'm in. You're an old friend of mine, and since I'm in no
condition to fly and fight at the same time, I'm taking you along as
co-pilot.
"Weidmann'll stick me for your pay, of course. I'll make sure he
does--that way there won't be much kick about you coming along,
especially if I make it a 'both or neither' proposition.
"When we get out in space, you show me how to get to Thorsten's bubble
in the Asteroids, and that's it. We deliver the pile charge, shoot
back out into space, fake the signs of a big battle, and yell for help
over the radio. There'll be a squawk about you being a woman then,
of course, but hell, us spacebums are supposed to be devil-may-care,
aren't we?"
It was a great little plan, all right. It would give SBI the location
of Thorsten's base, and it wouldn't hold up delivery of the pile
charge any longer than it would take to salvage it. Meanwhile, space
would be rid of Harry.
"Sounds like it'll work, all right," she said. "I wish I was surer the
SBI didn't have anything big on me. It'll be a bad enough stink as it
is." She grinned. "But we'll make out."
* * * * *
Weidmann was out at the field, fuming over the fact that I was an hour
and a half late.
He surprised me, though. He didn't boggle over taking Pat along, once I
gave him a story about being lightly hit by a car and having to take my
friend along.
Pat had had a tight cloth strapped across her breasts, her hood over
her face, and I'd gotten her into the ship fast.
"Okay, okay, who gives a damn what happens to you, as long as the job's
done," Weidmann said, but I couldn't believe him, somehow, when he
added, "I don't even care who does it, personally."
He slipped an envelope into my pocket. "Something for you," he said.
"Don't open it until you're past Mars, and don't let your friend see
it--for awhile, anyway." He chuckled, and surprised me by doing it. He
looked secretly happy over something, as if he knew about something
awful that was going to happen to me. "You'll have some sweet
explaining to do to your friend, Holcomb. I'd love to see it." But
there was still that note of something more than laughter, more than
most feelings, in his voice.
He wouldn't say more than that. He just shoved me into the ship and
slammed the hatch.
I kept watching him in the starboard screens as we checked off the
instrument board. He was a little figure at the edge of the field,
staring wistfully up at the ship, his mechanical arm in his pocket.
I couldn't wait until we were past Mars to open the letter, of course.
We'd be too close to the Belt by then. I read it while Pat was at the
controls.
_Holcomb_:
_I don't know exactly why--except that you're the best there is, I
guess--but you've been picked for this job._
_As you may have guessed, Transolar Express is a blind for some
pretty big Government bureaus. This isn't a ship the TSN cancelled,
of course. It's a top-secret job built according to the
specifications laid down by the Titan labs._
_When you hit Titan, turn the ship over to the technicians there,
and they'll install the additional equipment that's part of your
cargo of "pile fuels." The rest of your load really is fuel, but
it's not meant for the Titan pile--it's for the engines in the
ship._
_When it's ready, you'll fly the ship to God knows where. You won't
refuse, I know, because I wouldn't either, if I'd been given the
chance to fly the first ship into hyperspace._
_Luck,