* * * * *
Bull shoved hard. The Captain hit the deck and rolled to the nearest
bulkhead. No one said a word. There were too many other things to worry
about. A fouled discharge system. A man outside about to die unless
someone got to him in time.
Bull slammed the inner lock door shut and opened the outer lock. For a
moment he drew back. Although he had been spacing for ten years, this
was his first trip into the sun's area. In spite of the filters in his
viewing plates, the sun looked like a nightmare. Here where the view
was unobstructed, the prominences could be seen in their full terror
and the boiling jets of flaming gas seemed ready to reach out and pluck
him off the side of the Cerebus III. It took all his will power to step
outside the lock and look around for the Second-in-Command. Malcolm was
almost to the rear of the ship, making his way slowly. Bull moved out
after him.
Suddenly Bull's whole front view seemed filled with an explosion. He
clung desperately to the ship although he knew that there would be no
perceptible effect of such a small explosion in space. He did not have
to look to see what had happened; he knew. Malcolm was gone.
At least it had been quick and painless, thought Bull. Malcolm's heat
unit had failed. And in such a high temperature the change from a solid
to a gas had been so sudden that it was actually an explosion. After
swallowing hard several times he slowly began to make his way to the
stern. It was up to him to clear the tubes now.
He tried to throw the spectacle of Malcolm's disintegration from
his mind; but it kept intruding. He had seen many men die; but none
so quickly or so completely. The whole sun was now Malcolm's grave.
His very atoms were being torn asunder by the constant process of
ionization that was taking place in the sun's atmosphere. Somehow the
thought of such complete disembodiment was disturbing to Bull's ideas
of immortality.
He was jerked crudely back to reality when the ship came up with
unbelievable force to flatten him immovably on its side for a moment.
While he gasped for breath under the unexpected pressure, he sought
madly for an explanation of his predicament. As the pressure slowly
lessened, he realized that the ship must have drifted into one of the
many clouds of gas constantly expanding or contracting near the sun due
to differences in temperature. This time a rising mass had pressed him
against the ship. The lateral jet pilots inside were not compensating
for the shift because he was outside and a sudden movement might leave
him drifting free.
Once he could get to his feet and proceed, he was extra careful to
place his magnetized shoes firmly to the ship's shell. In addition, he
set out helper lines to act as auxiliary anchors against any unexpected
moves the ship might take. When the possibility of a faculae nearing
the ship entered his mind, it took his breath away. If that occurred,
he knew that the ship's crew would have to throw in the lateral jets
to escape. Unless his equipment was in place at the time of the move,
the suddenness of the change in direction would leave him free in the
chromosphere until his power ran out; or the faculae the ship had been
escaping clasped him and exploded him into another Malcolm.
With his mind trampled with fear, and his eyes fixed firmly to the
ship's shell, he was surprised to find himself suddenly within reach
of the stern tubes. The long traction line had whipped across the four
tubes with a force that had annealed parts of the line to both the
inside and outside so that the openings were completely covered. This
caused the forces in the firing chambers to neutralize themselves since
there was no aperture to permit the egress of force in any direction.
Making sure that all his possible anchorage was in place, he braced
himself and began burning out the clogged tubes nearest to him.
* * * * *
Back in the Vision Room the crew anxiously watched bits of metal slough
off under Bull's torch.
"That guy's sure got what it takes," someone whispered.
Skip spoke without thinking. "He sure has. I guess he meant what he
said about the Cerebus III."
Outside, Bull cleaned out the second tube and reached across without
thinking to start cutting on number three. Forgetting that he had
pulled all his lines as taut as possible, and that a move in the wrong
direction would pull some of them free, he felt his feet break loose
and in seconds he was floating twenty feet from the ship with only one
line connecting him to safety.
Skip spotted him floating clear, but Captain Stevens shouted. "He's
almost free. And he won't dare try to haul himself in by that one line
or he might tear it loose, too. He's lucky if some of the eddies around
the ship don't do that anyway."
Skip made no comment but started for the outer lock room on the double.
By the time the rest had figured what he was up to, he was already in a
suit and had shut the lock door behind him. Remembering Bull's trouble
on the way along the shell, Skip carefully put out his lines and made
as much speed as possible. He didn't dare to look to see if Bull was
still out there, or if he had broken free. When the tubes were reached,
he looked up and drew a deep breath--Bull was still O.K. Bracing
himself carefully, Skip drew in on Bull's line foot by foot. Since it
was firmly attached at Bull's suit, there was no danger of it pulling
out at that point. At last Bull was along side of Skip.
Once more firmly attached to the ship, Bull slumped against it
momentarily. It was impossible to communicate between the suits; and
the filters in the helmets didn't permit a look into one another's
faces.
When Bull looked up after catching his breath, Skip was already at work
on the remaining tubes. Placing himself alongside Skip, he added his
torch to the work.
Splinter by splinter, chunk by chunk they burned away the traction line
debris. To get the tubes completely free, one of them had to climb into
the tubes. Bull did this. The hard work in the confined space of the
suits caused sweat to pour from their every pore.
Bull was reaching for one of the last scraps of metal when he noticed
that his suit was getting hot. The metal fittings in his hands were
becoming too warm to hold. In sudden panic once more he remembered
Malcolm. Was his own anti-heat unit becoming depleted? Scuttling out
of the tube, he found Skip waiting for him. Looking around, the sight
which met his eyes didn't at first register. They could no longer see
the sun. _They seemed part of it._
There could be only one explanation. Their work must have taken longer
than it seemed. During that time the ship had drifted downward until it
was now well within the vortex of a spot. Since the sides seemed to be
pressing all around him, the ship was probably within the photosphere.
Unless they escaped at once, they would not get away. He began to work
his way back toward the lock; Skip following.
Inside the ship Captain Stevens looked anxiously at his instrument
panel. Sweat broke out on his forehead. They couldn't wait any longer.
He reached for the firing control.
A gasp came from one of the men in the room. "You can't, sir. Not after
what they have done."
Stevens instinctively began to withdraw his hand, then stopped. "I
must," he whispered. "It's them or all of us. There is no choice."
His hand plunged down on the firing control.
Outside, Bull had been placing his anchor lines carefully as he went
along. He kept slightly behind Skip, making sure that all his lines
were in place if Skip's weren't. There was no doubt in his mind as
to what Captain Stevens would do when he found that he had to make a
choice between the two of them dying or the whole crew. Bull knew that
the lines would hold against the thrust of the ship's engines. But
would they hold both he and Skip? What is more, would he be able to
grab that crazy space cadet that had saved his life, before the ship's
momentum tore the kid away and beyond reach?
He had little time to conjecture. His feet felt the ship's shell take
life. Snaking out his hands as rapidly as his reflexes allowed, he
grabbed Skip around the waist with both arms. Instantly the full force
of the ship's new direction and Skip's inertia fought a battle centered
on Bull's shoulder joints. Long before his bones slipped from their
shoulder sockets, Bull felt the pain of tensed and torn muscles course
down his sides and chest. He heard himself screaming far away in his
own helmet. But he held on. And then he lost consciousness.
* * * * *
Later. Much later; Bull woke to find himself lying in a bed in the
hospital bay of the ship. His arms were stretched high over his head;
held firmly in splints under tension.
"So you've decided to come to, eh?"
Bull turned his head to look at the bandaged figure in the next bed.
"Kind of hard to recognize, I guess."
The voice was familiar. "How come all those fancy bandages, Space
Cadet?"
Skip's voice was bitter and self-accusing. "Space Cadet is right. I was
outside working on those tubes and never noticed we were getting close
to the sun. I must have got a full dose of heat. How dumb can a guy
get?"
There was a silence between them. Then Bull spoke. "You saved my life
out there, Skip. I couldn't have pulled myself in. That took guts.
Thanks."
"What do you call that last act of yours? There isn't another man on
this ship that could--or would--have held on with those arms like that."
Both men looked at one another. There would be times when experience
and formal education might conflict in the future; but the remarks
would never have an edge that mutual admiration wouldn't dull.
"Admiring one another's bravery?"
Both men shifted their eyes to the doorway where Captain Stevens stood.
Resentment rose in both of them. Did he have to call them down and rub
it in at a time like this?
"Well? What have you got to say for yourselves?"
Bull, realizing that there was no sense in trying to condone what he
had done, answered with the first thing that popped into his mind.
"Too bad we didn't reach the Regis, sir."
"But we sure tried," Skip added. "The ship's crew gave everything it
had. If we couldn't do it, it couldn't be done."
"Nothing to say for yourselves?" Stevens persisted.
"I guess not, Sir," Skip answered for both of them.
Captain Stevens walked over and stood in the space between their beds.
"Both of you seem to have missed an important point; in spite of all
your experience--and all your learning."
Bull and Skip were puzzled.
"When that line from the Cerebus III to the Regis let go, what happened
to us?" Stevens asked.
"Why, we were flung from here to trouble," Bull exclaimed.
Skip's face screwed up into a frown under his bandages. Then he let out
a sigh of relief. "Of course."
"Of course what, book boy?" Bull asked irritatedly.
"Look," Skip explained. "If you pull a piece of string with a steady
tension on both ends, what happens when it breaks? That's right.
Objects at _both_ ends are flung apart."
"So the Regis was flung out of that spot the same as we were," Bull
said in amazement.
"That's right," Captain Stevens agreed. "And she was able to hang on
in her new position until another rescue ship reached her. She's safe.
Alistar of Cygnus is O.K., too."
"So the Federation and the System are happy," Skip added. "Everything
seems to have worked out but us. And we're just plain out."
Captain Stevens looked at them. "Some men," he said, "are like a good
ship--like the Cerebus III for instance. They don't show what they're
worth until they've had some of the polish and shine rubbed off. Isn't
that so, Allen?"
Skip nodded mutely.
"Other men," Stevens continued, "are afraid that someone might know
more than they do. Don't you agree, Wright?"
Bull's eyes were taking on a new light.
"What I really came here for, Ensigns, was to find out when you two
figure that you'll be able to pick up your duties as regular Officers
of the Cerebus III? I like to keep good men like you with me."
Bull and Skip looked at one another and grinned.