technical language with dismay; he’d intended to say, this particular cabin is still in one piece. Strange, how reflexes superseded thought. He checked the tell-tales again and confirmed. “Air level in here, normal. Helmets can be unlatched for the moment. DeMags, as far as I can tell, intact, gravity normal.”
Whatever had struck them, then, it was somewhere else in the clustered modules of the Ship, and the first order of business was to find out where, and how badly.
Peake said, “I don’t suppose there’s any possibility that it’s a false alarm, like the DeMags in the gym going off — something that triggered the alarm system?”
“I wish I thought so,” said Teague, but Moira, rising to her feet, said, “Not a chance. Listen, I’ve got to get to the Bridge—”
“You think the trouble’s on the Bridge?” Fontana asked, wondering if Moira’s psychism was still operative.
“I don’t know,” she said, “But — the sails — they’re spread out to surround every one of the modules — “ Teague checked her firmly, with a gesture, as she headed toward the sphincter lock. ”Nobody’s going anywhere, Moira, until we’ve checked the integrity of the Life-Support system and I’m in charge of that.” He wriggled through, pushed along the free-fall corridor between the main cabin and the living quarters. The cubicles stood open around the clothing-unit, a careless drip floating around the room in Moira’s cubicle, a discarded nightgown floating in Ching’s. But the air levels were normal, the gravity came on when he flipped the stud on the DeMag and evidently the living quarters were safe. He looked grimly at the pressure suits hanging flaccid by the doors of each cubicle, identical with the one he was wearing. He had never really understood why pressure suits had to be duplicated in each module. Now he knew. Any module that was holed gave you a margin, perhaps, of eight or ten seconds to get into a pressure suit. No time to fetch one from another self-contained module!
But why had they been holed at all, this far from the asteroid belt? Space debris was so thinly scattered, elsewhere, that the chances of a direct collision should logically be extremely minute.
Well, even the longest odds sometimes made a hit — in this case, an extremely direct hit. He didn’t think for a moment that the alarms had been set off by any such elusive short in the wiring circuits as had set off the DeMags. No such luck. The chances against such a collision were, literally, astronomical. Yet there was the Ship and there was the fragment that had struck them, in the same place at the same time. And the results — sirens, bells, alarms, and damage somewhere. But so far, all six of the crew were intact; and mechanical damage could be located and repaired. Somehow.
He wriggled back through the air-corridor, in free-fall, letting go, pushing off, re-entering the main cabin where the others waited.
“Living quarters intact,” he reported, not mentioning the water-source someone had left dripping; it was no time to fuss about trifles, but it could be messy if the DeMags were off, and he made a mental note to speak to Moira about it. But not till the present crisis was over.
“I’ll explore the Bridge next—”
“No,” Moira said sharply, “I’m coming to the Bridge. We might as well all come along and see what’s happened. I might be needed. Don’t argue, Teague, you know I’m right.”
It wasn’t worth arguing about. And perhaps they should all stay together until they knew exactly what was happening. He opened the bulkhead leading into the other free-fall corridor, and checked. There was no rush which would have indicated vacuum, open to space, on the other side; no explosive decompression in here, anyway. Nevertheless, he ordered helmets latched before they all followed him into the corridor. Gravity was normal here too — meaning that there wasn’t any. He pushed himself off down the corridor, the others following one by one; only Ching clung to the crawl bar, inching along, and for once they all waited for her without comment.
Peake was thinking about the hundreds of little blinking lights lining the control panels on the Bridge, reflected in the great lenticular window on the universe. In his mind was a terrifying picture of that window shattered and open to space, of the little lights extinguished, of themselves falling, falling, accelerating forever into the nowhere of the stars… his whole body felt clenched, taut, and when he thrust the pressure-suit against the sphincter lock into the Bridge module, he could feel the fresh spurt of adrenalin like a cramp in his calves, a tingle in hands and feet. He was the first into the Bridge module, and it was like a wave of sickness, the sickness of pure relief, as he saw the window undamaged, the blinking lights of the controls unchanged except for the great red wavering glow of the ALERT tell-tales.
“Bridge module undamaged,” he said, tersely. “Air normal.”’
“My shift,” Ravi said, unlatching his helmet and slipping into the seat. Ching said, “1 can check the telltales from here. Life Support control module un-breached. Air levels normal. Drive mechanism module, unbreached: air levels minimal, controls undamaged.”
Ravi said, frowning at the course readouts, “This isn’t the course I set,”
Teague, checking the readouts a fraction of a second behind Ching, said, “Oh-oh. Here it is. Gym; red light for explosive decompression. Whatever it is went straight through the gym; someone will have to go and find out what hit us, and how much damage there is.” He looked at Moira with a sudden gasp of wild surmise. She had known.
“Could hardly be better,” Peake said. “Nothing much in there except empty space—”
“There’s space in there now, anyway,” Ravi said, “hard vacuum.”
“Well, if something had to hit us, that’s the place where it would do least damage,” Peake said. “If it had hit the living quarters, we could have lost a lot; or the main cabin, holed, could have wiped out the musical instruments, anyhow. And if it had hit the computer module — I don’t even want to think about that!” They were all breathing harder now, with the relaxation of tension and fear. The crisis was over; the damage was manageable,
“Someone will have to go in, in a pressure suit, repair the damage, reseal it, but there’s no hurry,” Peake said. “We do have to get some exercise, meanwhile, but if we have to, we can set the DeMags to two gravities in the living quarters and do isometrics.”
Moira was not listening to him. She cried out, as if in agony. “Oh, no!” It felt as if the damage were in her own body, as she saw the great translucent sail wheeling across the stars outside the cabin. Where it had been firm, pressured tautly to the source of the light, now it streamed in tatters, trailing away behind the module and out of sight. It was a physical pain, seeing the proud sail dragging out in shreds and wisps of disintegrating film; she could almost feel the impact, the slicing pain…. She stared at the sail remnants, in dismay, and began to cry.
“Of all the damn silly things to cry over!” Teague said impatiently. “We have spare sails, and if we didn’t, we could synthesize them!”
“It’s not that,” Moira said, sniffing. “But — they were so beautiful, and — and look at them—”
“Let her alone, Teague,” Fontana said. “It’s the strain. It’s all right to cry, Moira, you can cry if you want to.”
But Ching, following Moira’s glance, felt tears in her own eyes. She knew precisely how Moira felt. She may not think I’m capable of understanding, but I do. You can trust machinery, it’s the one thing you can always trust, it’s supposed to be perfect and it is, it’s the one thing you can always be sure of being just exactly what it is supposed to be. And this — it’s like rape, a violation, something intruding into an area you thought safe, personal, protected.
She put her arm around Moira’s waist; dimly she remembered rebuffing some such gesture from Moira, some time ago — but Moira did not pull away from her, and Fontana wondered if she had ever heard Ching’s brisk voice so gentle.
“The thing to do, Moira, is to get them in, if you can do it without further damage, and try to get another sail out; we could veer off course if the sails aren’t properly trimmed for the drives. But the extent of the damage will be recorded in the computer, and any deviation from the set course; I’m going to check that, right now. Do you want some help getting the sails in, or would you rather do it yourself?”
Moira’s in shock, Fontana thought; and Ching’s doing what I ought to be doing. Who would ever have thought Ching could function as a psychologist?
Moira said, “I think I — I’d rather do it myself.” She knew it was absurd; but somehow she had the feeling that her own gentle hands on the sails would damage them less than another’s. She was still capable of being surprised at her own reaction, knowing it to be completely irrational. It’s as if Ching really understood. But how
