that all was well.
And on each was a tiny screen, across which three sets of lines traced leisurely rhythms, so hypnotic that Bowman also found it hard to tear away his eyes. One line showed respiration, another pulse, another EEG.
But the panels marked BOWMAN and WHITEHEAD were blank and lifeless. Their time would come a year from now, out at the orbit of Jupiter.
RUNAWAY
To Bowman, the first intimation of trouble was a quiet voice saying over the open radio circuit. 'Dave-I'm having control problems.' Whitehead sounded slightly annoyed, but not in the least alarmed.
Before Bowman could answer, he saw the pod emerge from the shadow of the ship, only twenty feet beneath the main observation window. It was under full power, heading roughly along the line of Discovery's orbit.
'What's the trouble?' he called. For a few seconds there was no answer, and the pod was already a hundred feet away before Whitehead replied.
'Throttle jammed at full thrust,' he said, quite calmly 'I'm building up a little distance before I try anything.'
That made sense, a runaway pod needed plenty of space to maneuver. And there was still no cause for real worry; Bowman was quite sure that Whitehead would soon fix the trouble, as he had always done in the past.
The seconds ticked slowly by; the pod was still gaining speed-and now it was so far away that it was barely recognizable. Though Whitehead would have no difficulty in homing on the ship from a distance of many miles, he had better not leave matters until too late for his main drive would empty the propellant tanks in a very few minutes.
The pod was now a tiny spot, its distance impossible to judge by the eye. Bowman locked the navigation radar on it, and was surprised to find that it was still only two miles away. But, far more serious, it was already traveling at a hundred and ninety miles an hour.
'Peter!' cried Bowman. 'What the hell's happening? Can't you fix it?'
For the first time, there was a note of alarm in Whitehead's voice.
'Controls won't respond,' he said. 'I'm pulling the main fuse to cut off power. Call you back.'
A second later, his radio went dead. While waiting, Bowman searched for the pod with a telescope, and found it quickly enough. With a sinking heart, he saw the little cloud of mist flaring from the rocket nozzle, and knew that the capsule was still accelerating.
Whitehead was back on the air almost at once.
'No use,' he said abruptly. 'Trying to turn with auxiliaries.'
It was a tricky maneuver, but the obvious next step. Even if he could not turn off the main drive, he should be able to spin the pod around so that he reversed the direction in which it was building up its uncontrollable velocity. Then the runaway would eventually be brought to rest, and presently it would start coming back again.
Tense and pale, with a dreadful feeling of helplessness, Bowman stared through the telescope. In its field of view, the pod seemed only a few feet away, and he could see every detail of its construction. Then, to his enormous relief, little spurts appeared from the attitude-control nozzles, and the capsule began to turn slowly on its axis.
The treacherous main drive swung out of sight, still firing, next he had a broadside view-then he was looking straight into the bay window at the seated figure of his friend. He could have seen Whitehead's expression, if it had not been for the glare of reflected sunlight on the transparent panels.
'You've done it!' he cried. 'Thank God!'
The capsule was still racing away at over two hundred miles an hour-but at least it was now losing speed, no longer gaining it, as its jet acted as a brake.
'Looks like it,' said Whitehead, his voice showing his immense relief. 'I knew Betty wouldn't let me down, if I treated her properly.'
Though it seemed ages, it was less than a minute before Bowman could tell, even without the aid of radar, that Whitehead was on the way back. Presently the capsule began to grow in the field of the telescope-slowly at first-then rapidly-then too rapidly.
'Still can't cut the damn thing,' said Whitehead. 'Hate to waste all this fuel, but I'll just have to swing to and fro until I run out of gas.'
It seemed to Bowman that the capsule was now heading straight toward the ship; they were out of the frying pan and into the fire. The risk of losing Whitehead had now been replaced by an even more serious danger.
'Watch your track,' he called anxiously. 'I think you're on a collision course.'
'I know,' said Whitehead breathlessly. 'Trying to flip her around again.'
He was too late. For one hideous moment, the capsule seemed to be heading straight for the observation windows of the Control Deck. Then, barely in time, the steering jets opened up, and the runaway vehicle skimmed above the curving hull of the ship and behind Bowman's field of view.
'Sorry about that,' said Whitehead. 'Give you a wider berth next-'
The sound of the crash came simultaneously over the radio and through the fabric of the ship. Bowman half rose from his seat, waiting for the alarms to go and for the damage signals to start flashing. But nothing happened; it must have been a glancing impact-no real harm done. To Discovery, at least; but what about the capsule?
'Peter!' he called. 'Are you all right? Do you read me?'
There was no reply. Bowman turned the gain of the radio full up, and listened intently. The carrier wave was still coming in, but that proved very little. He had hoped to hear the sound of Whitehead's breathing, even if he had been knocked unconscious. If the capsule had been cracked, of course, there would be no breathing-and no sound, except for the muffled roar of the jet drive, as loud as ever through the metal framework of the runaway.
That roar was still audible over the radio, but there was nothing else. Bowman called again, and again, Whitehead did not reply. At the same time, he swiftly ran through the pictures on the rear– view monitors, and after a quick search located the capsule a few hundred yards away.
To his great relief, it appeared intact-but it was still under power. Whether he was dead or alive, it was carrying Whitehead inexorably away from the ship; and there was nothing whatsoever he could do about it.
'Peter!' he called. 'Peter! Can you hear me?'
Still no answer-only that maddening jet roar. It seemed to last forever; and then, suddenly, it stopped. The capsule had at last used up its fuel.
Once more, Bowman strained to detect the sound of breathing over the hiss of the carrier wave. The microphone was only a few inches from Whitehead's mouth; if the space pod still contained air, he should hear something….
He did, and with a sigh of relief he resumed his own breathing. First there were some soft bangings, then a mumbled exclamation like a drunken man talking in his sleep. That was followed by a short blast of well-organized profanity; Whitehead was wholly conscious again.
'Hello, Dave,' he said, even before Bowman could call him. 'I'm O.K. now-just a bruise on my forehead-no other damage. Will you get a fix?'
A quick glance at the radar showed Bowman that the capsule was still less than five miles away. That was a perfectly trivial distance-but it was increasing rapidly. For despite its periods of braking, the pod was now racing away from Discovery at three hundred and sixty miles an hour.
Every minute it would increase its distance by six miles– and so on, hour after hour, day after day. But before long, of course, this would be of no practical interest to Peter Whitehead.
Bowman reported the facts; then he asked quickly: 'What's your oxygen reserve, Pete?'
'About . . . five hours.'
'Only five?'
'Yes. It was a single-tank job-so I thought.'
Bowman did not say what had flashed through his mind, but he was sure that it had already occurred to Whitehead. No matter how much oxygen the pod carried, it might make no difference now.
For several seconds there was no sound over the radio circuit; then Whitehead said, with a kind of resigned sadness: 'Well, I guess that's it, Dave.'
