capable of sizing up a situation in an instant and doing the right thing at precisely the right moment on a combination of instinct, training, and blindingly fast thought processes. He did not consider himself to be a bold pilot; the bold ones died young. Ivshenko was a cautious pilot who flew dangerous aircraft. When he transferred to the cosmonaut corps he was almost bored with the Newtonian predictability of each space mission.
He was not bored now. He was not particularly worried, either. Merely careful. No need to rush, he reminded himself as he cautiously poked his pole into the sandy ripples a meter in front of his boots. We are here to rescue those four wretches, not to get stuck alongside them.
Dust stirred up where he prodded the ground. The pole sank in a few centimeters, then seemed to hit firm soil. Ivshenko nodded inside his helmet and took a step forward, dragging his safety tether behind him.
'How is it?' Vosnesensky’s voice rasped in his earphones.
'Soft, like sand. Not good traction.'
'Be very careful.'
'I am always very careful, Mikhail Andreivitch.'
'Then be doubly careful.'
'Yes, sir, comrade group commander.' Ivshenko chuckled to himself and took another step forward.
His foot slid out from under him. His body half turned as he grabbed at the pole with both hands but it too was sinking into the sand, suddenly the consistency of talcum. Clouds of pink dust billowed softly as Ivshenko felt himself slipping, sliding forward, his boots suddenly without purchase, sinking into a sea of soft red sand.
He did not call out. Even as he sank down into the clinging dust he let go of the useless pole and tried to twist his body around and reach back toward the last bit of firm ground. But inside the cumbersome hard suit he could barely turn a few degrees as he floundered, arms flailing, legs kicking. It was like sinking into gooey mud. Ivshenko imagined himself being sucked down into quicksand.
With those rapid reflexes and his ability to size up a situation quickly, Ivshenko stopped his struggling even as he heard Vosnesensky bellowing in his earphones: 'What’s wrong? What’s happening?'
He felt something firm beneath the heel of his left boot and tried to balance all his weight on it. But the boot slipped off it and he continued to sink slowly, inexorably, into the fine red dust. It rose up to his chest, up to his armpits, to the lip of his helmet.
'I am sinking,' he reported glumly. The visor of his helmet was spattered with rust-colored dust. His arms were spread across the surface of the sand like a swimmer trying to float. He was afraid to move them for fear of sinking faster.
Vosnesensky swore in Russian.
'I’m sinking!' Ivshenko repeated, louder, his voice pitched higher. The talcumlike sand was crawling up the faceplate of his helmet.
Vosnesensky hesitated only a moment. It would be dangerous to try to back up on this slope, he knew, but Ivshenko’s tether was attached to a simple ring fastener on the nose of the vehicle. There was no winch to pull him up.
'Sit down,' he snapped at Reed as he punched the control panel buttons that put all the wheel motors into reverse.
Reed slipped into the right-hand seat, his eyes goggling at the scene in front of them. Ivshenko’s helmet had disappeared into the sand almost entirely. He was yelling something in Russian, but his radio voice was breaking up, garbled with static.
'Pull me up, dammit!' Ivshenko shouted into his helmet microphone. He was completely drowned in the red dust now. And still sinking. It was bottomless.
Then he felt the tether take hold. Like a parachute blossoming over his head. Ivshenko felt the same rush of gratitude and joy.
'Good! Good! Pull me back.'
He knew Vosnesensky would inch the rover backward with infinite care, infinite caution. That’s fine, Ivshenko said to himself. I have twelve hours of air, maybe more. Take your time, Mikhail Andreivitch. Take all the time you want, but keep pulling me up.
His head rose above the sand and almost instantly he could hear a babble of voices: Reed, Vosnesensky, the four in the other rover, all talking at once.
'I’m fine,' he said to them all. 'Keep pulling.'
His shoulders came free of the dust. He could wave his arms at them all. Then his left boot seemed to catch on the same projection of underlying rock that had almost stopped him when he was sinking.
'Wait, I’m caught…'
But the tether kept pulling him. His left leg was pinned somehow. He tried to twist it free as he called on Vosnesensky to stop for a moment.
The tether was made of the same lightweight, high-strength carbon fiber composites as those that linked the spacecraft together. The underground rock was as hard and durable as granite. The rover continued to grind slowly backward despite Ivshenko’s yowls, stretching him as if he were being racked.
It only took a few seconds. Ivshenko felt his knee pop, a searing bolt of pain stabbing the length of his leg. He screamed a curse at the universe as the tether suddenly went slack.
Vosnesensky bellowed into the cockpit radio, 'What’s the matter with you?'
'You’ve just broken my leg, that’s all,' Ivshenko answered in a voice sharp with misery.
'How…?'
'Never mind! Pull! I’m starting to sink again.'
It cost him excruciating pain, but Ivshenko dislodged his leg from the projection of rock while he snarled at Vosnesensky. He felt the tether tighten again. His leg throbbing terribly, he lapsed into a gritted-teeth silence as the rover pulled him out of the sand pit.
For long minutes he lay on the firm ground, panting, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain.
In the cockpit, Tony Reed stared at the prone red-suited figure, his heart pounding in his ears. 'What’s happened to him?'
'He said his leg became caught on something,' Vosnesensky answered dourly. 'When we pulled him, the leg snapped.'
'What are we going to do?'
'We’ve got to go out and get him!'
'Go out? You can’t!'
'I will suit up,' Vosnesensky said.
'You’re in no condition to go outside,' Reed insisted. 'You haven’t had more than two hours’ sleep since we left the dome.'
'I must.' But his first try at getting up from the cockpit seat was a failure. His legs were too weak to support him. The Russian tried again; the best he could do was to stand shakily for a moment and then collapse back onto the seat.
'Don’t look at me!' Reed said, near panic. 'I can’t go out! I… I’m not trained for EVA work.'
'Stop arguing,' Ivshenko’s voice came over the radio speaker, weak, gasping. 'I can make it to the hatch… I think.'
The cosmonaut began crawling along the ground, pulling himself with his hands, dragging his useless left leg.
'If his suit ruptures…' Vosnesensky let the thought hang. Turning, sweaty-faced, to Reed he commanded, 'Get into your hard suit, doctor. Now.'
'But I…'
'You need not go EVA,' Vosnesensky said, his voice heavy with distaste. 'But our comrade will need someone to help him into the airlock. You can do that much, can’t you?'
Reed’s insides were fluttering, his hands trembling. 'Yes, of course,' he said, desperately trying to calm himself. 'Naturally. I can help him out of his suit and tend to his leg.'
'An angel of mercy,' Vosnesensky snarled.
From the cockpit of the stranded rover, Jamie and the three others had watched and listened to Ivshenko’s ordeal. With growing horror they saw their would-be rescuer sink into the sand, heard his shouts for help, watched the second rover carefully back up and pull the cosmonaut free, flinched at his scream when his leg
