Anti-Ice

Ahead of me, hanging before the face of the Moon, was the Phaeton herself. The craft was about thirty feet from me and appeared to lie on her side; her three stubby legs jutted from her base, useless, and in that base I saw the open port through which I had emerged. The whole effect was of some rather absurd, fragile toy, the shadows of the legs and other features as sharp as stencils across her hull; and I had a sudden shock of dislocation as I recalled the last time I had seen the ship from the outside, perched proudly atop the Prince Albert in the soft Belgian sunshine.

The twin hoses looped across space, connecting me to the air cupboard; and I decided that I must have fallen to the full extent of the pipes and then bounced back by some yards.

I reached above my head to the hose which was fixed there and, using both mittened hands, began to haul myself awkwardly along the tubes to the brougham. The exertion caused my breathing to speed up and my face- window steamed over once more; but I was still able to see the vessel and so proceeded. At last I fetched up against the air cupboard hatch; I clung securely to one leg of the craft and waited for some minutes for my faceplate to clear.

I imagined Holden, Pocket and Traveller not ten feet above my head, resting as warm and comfortable as in any living-room.

I pulled my way up the leg and reached the lower skirt of the main hull of the craft. On to the vessel’s curving aluminum skin, Traveller had instructed me, had been fastened many small handles, designed to assist repairmen and other engineers. These and other protuberances made the task of pulling myself along the Phaeton’s hull toward the Bridge quite easy. I proceeded slowly, taking care that my air hoses did not snag. As I worked silver flaked from my leather suit, so that I became surrounded by a cloud of sparkling fragments.

After a few minutes I was clinging like some silvered insect to the hull just below the dome which covered the Bridge. A few feet above me was the wheeled hatch through which I would enter the vessel.

I had gone over the required sequence of events from this point with Holden and Traveller, and, we had concluded rather grimly, I had only one possible course of action. All trace of my celestial mood of a few minutes earlier dissipated. I closed my eyes and listened to the rush of blood in my ears. I had never before killed a man; nor had I seriously contemplated the possibility of such an action. But, I told myself resolutely, the inhabitant of that Bridge was no civilized man; he was a Hun, an animal who had attempted to take the lives of four men, and who had also, in all probability, joined in the conspiracy to wreck the Prince Albert.

He had shown no mercy, and deserved none.

So, with my resolve renewed, I pulled myself above the sill of the windowed dome.

I braced my feet against handles set in the lower hull and turned the wheel which would open the hatch. Speed was of the essence. The Bridge occupant was no experienced space voyager, of course, any more than the rest of us; and would, perhaps, understand little of the deadly implications of this grotesquely suited figure appearing outside his window. So we had hoped.

As I worked I made out the interior of the Bridge. Amid the banks of elaborate instruments a lone figure drifted forward, gazing up at me with more curiosity than fear. He wore a bright red jacket. He made no move to stop me—but, I realized with a sinking heart, he held an advantage which we should have foreseen.

In his hand was a pistol, pointed squarely at my chest.

I considered abandoning my quest and ducking back to safety—but what would that avail me? If ever I were to enter the Bridge by this route, this was surely my best chance. In any event, if he were to take a shot at me he would surely blast a hole in one or more glass panes, thereby allowing his air to escape and so destroying himself as well as me!

…But would our saboteur understand this?

And then again, whatever the state of our pilot’s thoughts, what of my own? Now that I saw this “monstrous Hun” as a real human figure with a life and past of his own, did I have the resolve to kill him in this way?

All this passed through my feverish soul in a few seconds. Abruptly I concluded that I would sooner die from a clean bullet through the heart than suffocate slowly; and if I should destroy the saboteur, well, it was no more than he had intended for me, Francoise, Traveller, and thousands of others at the launch of the Prince Albert!

So, with renewed vigor, I turned the wheel.

The saboteur moved away from the windows, and the fist which held the pistol wavered.

In an instant, the seal broke. The hatch flapped up, narrowly missing my faceplate, and a gale thrust at my chest. I kept firm hold of my wheel with both hands; I was pulled aside and driven against the Bridge windowglass. Papers and other fragments billowed around me, and I saw the sparkle of ice crystals on the breeze.

The saboteur was prepared for none of this.

He was bowled through the air toward the hatchway; as he tumbled through the frame his pistol fell harmlessly from his shocked fingers and disappeared into the blackness, and with his fingertips the saboteur clung to the lip of the hatch, hanging there on the very rim of infinity! One yellow boot fell from his dangling leg and tumbled away into space; long black hair flapped across his brow, and he turned an agonized face to mine, tongue blue and protruding, eyes frozen over.

But, despite these grotesqueries, and despite the ultimate peril of that moment, I recognized the man and found room for a fresh shock. For this was no Prussian saboteur; this was Frederic Bourne, companion of Francoise!

The last vestiges of air had escaped now; Bourne’s head lolled back, and his fingers loosened on the hatchway rim. Without further thought I grabbed at his wrist. Then, using my one free hand rather awkwardly, I hauled my way into the Bridge. My airhoses and the unfortunate Bourne came dangling after me, Bourne bumping hard against the frame. Once inside I shoved Bourne deeper into the interior of the craft, and dragged in a few more feet of hose.

I grabbed at the hatch and slammed it closed, trapping my hoses, and labored to turn the wheel.

As soon as my hose was blocked the comforting susurrus of piped air, my constant companion through this jaunt, died away. Traveller had estimated that I should have sufficient seconds of air in my helmet and the remaining few feet of hose to allow me to open the way to my colleagues in the Smoking Cabin. But these calculations seemed remote as I labored in a suit that grew as tight and constricting as any iron maiden, and as my helmet turned at last into an impenetrable fog of condensation.

I pushed myself to the floor and groped blindly across it, staring through my panes of mist in the vain hope of espying the hatchway. My head began to pound and my chest to ache, and I imagined the carbonic acid expelled by my lungs clustering about my face like some poison—

My feet, scrabbling over the floor, encountered a wheel set on a raised hatch. I grabbed it with both hands, uttering a fervent prayer of thanks, and hauled at the wheel with what strength I had left… but to no avail. Exploration by touch informed me that a crowbar had been jammed into the spokes of the wheel, completely restricting its movement.

It was the work of a moment to remove the bar, and then the wheel turned easily.

The helmet grew darker, and I wondered if my senses were failing; the ache in my lungs seemed now to have spread to all parts of my neck and chest, and my arms felt as if all energy had been drained from them.

The wheel turned in my hands, mysteriously; a final fragment of rationality told me that Holden and Traveller must be working at their side of the hatch also. I released the wheel and floated into darkness.

The pain evaporated, and a soft illumination began to break through my darkness, a blue-white light like that of Earth.

I fell into the light.

* * *

When I opened my eyes again I fully expected to see the inside of my hellish copper helmet-prison once more. But my head was free; the furnishings of the Smoking Cabin were all about me. Holden’s face hovered over me, a round pool of concern. “Ned? Ned, can you hear me?”

I tried to speak, but found that my throat was as sore as if it had been scoured, and I could only whisper, “Holden? I have succeeded, then?”

His lips were pressed together, and he nodded gravely. “You have indeed, my lad. Although I fear we are