ght of them now, of the men who on an
antediluvian Hius-a photon tub with a single layer of mesosubstance on the
reflector-pierced the Venusian atmosphere and in the primordial black
sand-wastes discovered a uranium Golconda- the spot where a mammoth
meteorite of anti-substance had hit the planet.
Zhilin knew other remarkable spacemen of course. For instance, the test
flyer Vasily Lyakhov who had lectured on the theory of photon propulsion to
the third- and fourth-year students. He organised a three-month practical
course on Spu-20 for last-year students. Space flyers called Spu-20 the
Starlet, and Zhilin found it fascinating. The first ram photon engines were
tested there; robot scouts were sent from there into the zone of absolute
free fall; the first astroship Hius-Lightning was being built there. One day
Lyakhov took the students into a hangar. In it was a photon robot refueller
which had just returned from a six-month wandering in the AFF zone. The
robot had travelled away from the Sun to a distance of one light-month. It
was a huge ungainly job of a surprising turquoise-green colour. The sheeting
fell away in pieces when they touched it. It just crumbled away as dry bread
would. But its controls were in working order, or it wouldn't have
returned-like three scouts out of the nineteen sent out into the AFF zone.
The students wanted to know what had happened to the robot but Lyakhov said
he didn't know. "At great distances from the Sun there's something we still
don't know anything about," he said. And his thoughts turned to the men who
in a few years' time would steer the Hius-Lightning to that region where
there was something about which we didn't know anything.
Funny, thought Zhilin, I already have quite a few things to remember
myself. Take that time, for instance, on a practice flight in a geodesic
rocket when the engine cut dead and I plopped down with my rocket in a
state-farm field near Novoyeniseisk. I wandered among the automatic HF
ploughs for hours until by the evening I came across a remote control man.
That night we lay in his tent watching the lights on the ploughs traverse
the dark field, and when a plough chugged by, whiffs of ozone wafted to us.
The man plied me with local wine and chafed me and, I still think I left him
unconvinced that space flyers do not drink. In the morning a tractor-haul
came for the rocket. Iron Chen gave me a rocket, too, for failing to
catapult....
Or my diploma Spu-16 Earth-Giphei Moon flight when a member of the
examination panel tried to confuse us by yelling the input data in a panicky
voice: "Asteroid, third magnitude, on the starboard! Rate of enclosure
twenty-two!" and the like. There were six of us and we were all sick and
tired of the chap, though Jan, the monitor, tried to persuade us people
should be forgiven their small weaknesses. We agreed in principle but
couldn't forgive that particular weakness. We all thought it was a clueless
flight and none of us felt any fear when suddenly the ship went into a
terrific bank under 4 G's. We scrambled into the control room, where the
member of the panel was pretending the overgravity had killed him, and
righted her. Then the man opened one eye and said, "Good show, space
flyers," and we forgave him all his weaknesses there and then. Before him
nobody had called us that in earnest, except our mothers and girl friends,
but when saying, "My dear space flyer," they had a look as though they were
about to burst into tears.
At that moment the Tahmasib was shaken with such a force that Zhilin
fell backwards, knocking his head against the bomb-rack.
"Damn," said Yurkovsky. "It may be untrivial but if the ship's going to
yaw like that we won't
get much work done."
"No," said Dauge, his hand pressed to his right eye, "indeed we won't."
Apparently there were more and more large meteorites straight ahead and
the cyber-navigator, on orders from the overworked meteorite finders, was
jerking the ship crazily out of their paths.
"Surely not a swarm?" Yurkovsky said, clutching at the periscope frame.
"Poor Varya, she doesn't like being shaken."
"Why didn't you leave her behind then?" Dauge said viciously. His right
eye was swelling visibly; he fingered it, muttering something in Lettish. He
was no longer squatting, but half-lying on the floor, his legs spread for
better balance.
Zhilin stood upright, gripping with each hand the breech and the
bomb-rack for support. Suddenly the floor fell from under his feet, then
rushed up, hitting his heels painfully. Dauge groaned. Zhilin's legs
buckled. Bykov's hoarse bass roared on the intercom:
"Engineer Zhilin to control room! Passengers take shelter in the
acceleration absorbers!"
Zhilin raced, rolling, to the door. Behind his back Dauge said:
"Why in the absorbers?"
"Nothing doing," said Yurkovsky. Something metallic rattled across the
floor. Zhilin dashed into the gangway. There was adventure coming.
The ship was being tossed about like flotsam on choppy seas. Zhilin ran
along the gangway in a forced zigzag, thinking; That one's past, and that,
and that too, they'll all go past.... Then there was a sharp hissing behind
him, incredibly loud. He backed against the wall and spun round. In the
empty gangway ten paces away there was a dense cloud of white vapour exactly
like that which is observed when a bottle of liquid helium bursts open. The
hissing soon stopped. The air was icy-cold. "Hit us, the bastard," Zhilin
said and tore himself from the wall. The white cloud crept after him, slowly
settling.
It was very cold in the control room, and Zhilin saw rainbow-coloured
hoarfrost on the walls and the floor. Mikhail Antonovich, his neck purple,
sat at the computer, reading a tape. Bykov was not in sight.
"Another hit?" the navigator called in a thin voice.
"Where the dickens is that engineer?" Bykov boomed from behind the
casing.
"Here," said Zhilin.
He ran across the control room, which was slippery with hoarfrost.
Bykov popped out to meet him, his red hair standing on end.
"To the reflector control," he said.
"Aye, aye," said Zhilin. "Navigator, any gaps?"
"No. Same density all round. Bad luck...." "Cut off the reflector. I'll
try to get through on the emergency engines."
Mikhail Antonovich swivelled hurriedly in his chair to the control
panel behind him. He put his hand on the keyboard and said:
"Perhaps we could-"
He did not finish. Terror distorted his face. The panel with the
keyboard bent, then straightened again and slid noiselessly to the floor.
Zhilin heard him scream and ran in confusion from behind the casing. On the
wall, clutching .at the soft panelling, sat Varya, Yurkovsky's pet, a
five-foot-long Martian lizard. The exact replica of the control panel was
already fading off her body, but on her horrible triangular muzzle, a red
hold lamp was still flickering, on and off. Mikhail Antonovich stared at the
patterned monster, sobbing and holding his hand to his heart.
"Shoo!" Zhilin yelled; Varya darted aside and disappeared.
"I'll kill her," Bykov growled. "Zhilin, to your station, damn it."
Just as Zhilin was turning the Tahmasib was hit real hard.
J-STATION, AMALTHEIA
The water-carriers talk about hunger while the nutrition engineer is
ashamed of his cuisine.
After supper Uncle Hoak entered the rest-room and said, without looking
at anyone:
"I need some water. Any volunteers?"
"Yes," said Kozlov.
Potapov looked up from the chess-board and also said yes.
"Why, yes," said Kostya Stetsenko.
"May I come too?" Zoya Ivanova asked in a thin voice.
"You may," Uncle Hoak said, staring at the ceiling. "So I'll be waiting
for you."
"How much water do you need?" asked Kozlov.
"Not much," said Uncle Hoak. "About ten tons."
"Right-o," said Kozlov. "We're going straight away."
Uncle Hoak went out.
"I'll go with you," said Gregor.
"You better stay behind and think over your next move," Potapov
advised. "It's your turn. You always take half an hour over every move."
"Never mind," said Gregor. "I'H have time enough to think."
"Galya, will you go with us?" asked Stetsenko.
Galya was reclining in a chair in front of the magnetovideophone. She
lazily responded:
"I don't mind."
She stood up and stretched luxuriously. She was twenty-eight years old,
tall, dark and handsome. The most beautiful woman of the station. Half of
the boys were in love with her. She was in charge of the astrometrical
observatory.
"Come on," Kozlov said, buckling on his magnetic boots and making for
the door.
They first called at the, stores for fur jackets, electric saws and a
self-propelled platform which was to take them to the Ice Grotto. That was
the name by which the place where the station got water for all its needs
was known. Amaltheia-a somewhat flattened sphere with a diameter of
eighty-two miles-is completely composed of ice. It is ordinary water ice,
the same as on the Earth, only its surface is sprinkled with meteoric dust
and fragments of rock and iron. There was no lack of explanations of this
ice planet's origin. Some people with little knowledge of cosmogony believed
that it was the water envelope of some planet which had neared Jupiter
closer than was good for it and got it torn off its back; others were
inclined to explain the fifth satellite as a result of the condensation of
water crystals; still others claimed that Amaltheia did not belong to our
galaxy at all, but had wandered out of interstellar space and been captured
by Jupiter. But anyway, an unlimited store of water ice, theirs for the
hacking, came in very handy to the station's personnel.
The platform ran the length of the bottom tier and stopped in front of
the wide gate of the Ice Grotto. Gregor jumped down, went up to the gate
and, screwing his eyes short-sightedly, searched for the button lock.
"Lower, lower, you blind owl," said Potapov.
Gregor pressed the button and the gate slid open. The platform ran
inside. The place did look like an ice grotto, a tunnel hacked in solid ice.
It was lit by three gas-filled tubes, whose light was reflected sparkling
from the walls and ceiling, the whole giving the effect of a
many-chandeliered ball-room.
There was no magnetic floor, which made walking difficult, and it was
intensely cold.
"Ice," said Galya, looking round her. "Just like back on the Earth."
Zoya shivered, pulling her fur jacket tighter round her.
"Looks like Antarctica to me," she muttered.
"I've been to Antarctica," Gregor declared, "Where haven't you been!"
said Potapov. "You've been everywhere."
"Come on, boys, let's start," Kozlov ordered. The boys took the saws,
went to the far wall and started sawing blocks of ice. The saws went into
the ice like hot knives into butter. Ice sawdust sparkled in 'the air. Zoya
and Galya came closer.
"Let me have a go," Zoya asked, looking at Kozlov's bent back.
"No," he said without glancing back. "It'll hurt your eyes."
"Just like snow back on the Earth," Galya said, placing her hand in the
stream of ice dust.
"Plenty of that stuff anywhere," said Potapov. "Take Ganymede-any
amount of snow there." "I've been to Ganymede," Gregor declared. "You'd
drive anyone mad," said Potapov. He switched off his saw and pushed a cube
of ice weighing at least a ton away from the wall. "There you are."
"Cut it in pieces," advised Stetsenko. " ' "' "No, don't," said Kozlov.
He, too, switched off his saw. "On the contrary," and he gave his huge block
of ice a strong push so that it glided slowly towards the exit. "On the
contrary--it's easier for Hoak when the blocks are large."
"Ice," said Galya. "Just like on the Earth. I think I'll be coming here
often after work now."
"Are you missing the Earth very much?" Zoya asked timidly. She was ten
years younger, worked as assistant at the astrometrical observatory and felt
shy in front of her chief.
"Yes," said Galya. "Missing the Earth in a general way, Zoya darling,
but above all longing to sit on grass, stroll in a park, go to a dance....
Not our airy exercises but an ordinary waltz. And to drink out of ordinary
glasses instead of those stupid squeezies. And wear a dress instead of
trousers, I'm missing an ordinary skirt terribly."
"So am I," said Potapov.
"Nothing like a bit of skirt," said Kozlov.
"You wits," said Galya.
She picked up a piece of ice and threw it at Potapov. Potapov jumped
out of its way, hit the ceiling and bounced back on Stetsenko.
"Easy there," Stetsenko said angrily. "Or you'll get sawn in two."
"Looks like enough," said Kozlov. He had just heaved off a third block.
"Load up, boys."
They loaded the ice on to the platform, then Potapov seized Galya with
one arm and Zoya with the other and without warning tossed both on top of
the neat pile of ice blocks. Zoya gave a little shriek and clutched at
Galya. Galya laughed.
"Come on," Potapov yelled. "There'll be a bonus from Hoak-a plate of
chlorella soup each."
"I won't be the one to turn it down," Kozlov muttered.
"You've never turned a plate of soup down yet," said Stetsenko. "Still
less now when we're hungry.. . ." The platform rolled out of the Ice Grotto
and Gregor closed the gate.
"Hungry, did you say?" Zoya contributed from high up the ice mound.
"Why, I read a book about the war with the fascists the other day- people
were really hungry then. In Leningrad when it was besieged."
"I've been to Leningrad," declared Gregor.
"We get chocolate," Zoya went on, "and they were issued five ounces of
bread a day. And what bread! Sawdust-half of it."
"Not sawdust, really," said Stetsenko.
"But it was."
"Chocolate or no chocolate," said Kozlov, "we'll be in a tight fix if
the Tahmasib doesn't arrive."
He was carrying his electric saw on his shoulder-like a rifle.
"But she will," Galya said with conviction. She jumped down from the
platform and Stetsenko hastened to catch her. "Thanks, Kostya. She certainly
will, boys."
"Still I think we should suggest to the chief he cut the rations
again," said Kozlov. "At least for the men."
"What nonsense," said Zoya. "I've read women endure hunger much better
than men."
They walked behind the slowly moving platform.
"Women do," said Potapov. "But not kids."
"Isn't he witty," said Zoya.
"No, really, boys, I mean it," said Kozlov. "If Bykov isn't here
tomorrow we ought to drum up everybody and suggest cutting the rations."
"Well," said Stetsenko. "I don't think anyone's going to object."
"I won't," declared Gregor.
"That's good," said Potapov. "I was just thinking what was to be done
if you did."
"Greetings to the water-carriers," Astrophysicist Nikolsky said,
passing by.
Galya said angrily:
"Shame on you, Kozlov, and on all of you. I don't understand how you
can worry about your bellies so blatantly-as if the Tahmasib were a robot
with not a man on board."
Even Potapov flushed and was stumped for a reply. The rest of their way
to the galley they covered in silence. Uncle Hoak was sitting gloomily at
the huge ion exchanger they used to purify the water. The platform stopped
at the entrance.
"Unload it," Uncle Hoak said, looking at the floor. It was unusually
quiet, and cool, and odourless in the galley, which was more than Uncle Hoak
could bear.
In silence the blocks of ice were unloaded and thrust into the jaws of
the water-purifier.
"Thanks," Uncle Hoak said, still not looking up.
"You're welcome, Uncle Hoak," said Kozlov. "Come on, boys."
In silence they headed for the store and in silence they went back to
the rest-room. Galya picked up a book and settled down into her chair in
front of the magnetovideophone. Stetsenko hovered irresolutely near by,
glanced at Kozlov and Zoya who sat at their table again (Zoya was studying
by correspondence at a power institute and Kozlov was helping her), then
heaved a sigh and shuffled away to his room. Potapov said to Gregor:
"Come on now-it's your move."
CHAPTER TWO
MEN ABOVE THE ABYSS
1. The captain breaks bad news while the engineer is being brave.
Apparently a large meteorite had hit the reflector, at once breaking
the symmetry of thrust distribution on the surface of the paraboloid and
sending the Tahmasib into a frenzied spin. In the control room Captain Bykov
alone did not lose consciousness. To be sure he had knocked his head hard
against something, then his side, and been completely winded for a while,
but he had managed to retain his hold on the chair against which the first
shock had hurled him and he had been clutching, crawling, reaching out until
at last he reached the control panel. All was revolving round him at an
incredible speed. Zhilin dropped from somewhere up above and flew past him,
his arms and legs thrust out, with not a bone whole, it seemed to Bykov.
Then he bent his head over the panel and, taking a careful aim, jabbed his
finger at the key he wanted.
The cyber-navigator fired the emergency hydrogen engines and Bykov felt
another jerk as if he were in a train stopped at full speed-only much more
violent. He'd been bracing against the impact for all he was worth and so he
was not pitched out of his seat. But for a moment all went dark in front of
his eyes, and his mouth was full of chipped-off tooth enamel. The Tahmasib
righted herself out. Then he steered her straight through the cloud of rock
and iron gravel. Blue flashes churned on the screen of the forward scanner.
There were many of them, far, far too many, but the ship no longer yawed:
the meteorite device was switched off and the cyber held a true course.
Above the noise in his ears Bykov heard hissing sounds several times and was
enveloped by icy vapours, but he only drew in his head and bent lower over
the control panel. Once something burst behind him, scattering fragments.
Presently there were fewer flashes on the screen, then none. The meteoric
attack was over.
Bykov glanced at the course plotter. The Tahmasib was falling. She was
falling through Jupiter's exosphere in a narrowing spiral at a speed which
was much slower than the orbital. She'd lost speed during the meteoric
attack. A ship always loses her speed in such cases through changing her
course. This is what happens during the routine Jupiter-Mars and
Jupiter-Earth flights which take ships through the asteroid belt. But there
it's not dangerous. Here, over Jupe, loss of speed spells certain
destruction. The ship will be burnt up in the denser layers of the monster
planet's atmosphere. That's what happened to Paul Danget ten years before.
And if she doesn't burn up she will fall into the hydrogen abyss from which
there is no return. That's what probably happened to Sergei Petrushevsky
early this year.
Only a photon engine could effect a pull-away. Quite mechanically Bykov
pressed the ribbed key of the starter. But not a single lamp flashed on the
control panel. The reflector was damaged and the auto-emergency device had
blocked an unreasonable order. This is the end, thought Bykov. He turned the
ship in a tidy manoeuvre and switched the emergency engines to full blast. A
load of 5 G's pressed him into the chair. That was the only thing he could
do in the circumstances: reduce the speed of fall to a minimum to prevent
her from burning up. For thirty seconds he sat immobile, staring at his
hands, which appeared increasingly dropsical with overload. Then he cut the
fuel and the overload was gone. The emergency engines would go on braking-as
long as there was fuel. But there wasn't much. There had never been a case
of emergency engines saving anyone over Jupiter. Over Mars, Mercury or
Earth, possibly. But never over that monster.
Bykov heaved himself up and looked beyond the panel. On the floor among
plastic fragments lay the navigator, stomach up, looking like a man drowned.
"Misha," Bykov called in a whisper. "You all right, Misha?"
There was a scraping sound and Zhilin crawled on all fours from under
the reactor casing. He, too, seemed to be in a bad way. He stared dazedly at
the captain, the navigator and the ceiling, then sat up and crossed his
legs.
Bykov clambered out of his seat and sank on his haunches beside the
navigator, bending his knees with an effort. He touched the man's shoulder
and called again:
"You all right, Misha?"
The navigator winced and, without opening his eyes, licked his lips.
"Alexei, old chap," he said in a weak voice.
"Any pain?" Bykov asked and started feeling all over the navigator.
"Ugh!" the navigator said and opened his eyes wide.
"And here?"
"U-ugh!" the navigator said in a painful voice.
"And here?"
"Oh, stop it," the navigator said and sat up, propping himself with his
hands. His head lolled to his shoulder. "Where's Ivan?" he asked.
Bykov looked round but couldn't see Zhilin.
"Ivan," Bykov called softly.
"I'm here," Zhilin responded from behind the casing. They heard him
drop something and swear under his breath.
"Ivan's all right," Bykov told the navigator.
"That's good," Mikhail Antonovich said and, clutching the captain's
shoulder, got up.
"How do you feel, Misha?" asked Bykov. "In condition?"
"In condition," the navigator said uncertainly, Still clutching him.
"Looks like I am."
He looked at Bykov with an air of surprise and said:
"What a cat of nine lives man is, eh? Still alive. ..."
"Hm," Bykov said vaguely. "Still alive. Look, Mikhail..." he said and
paused. "Things're bad with us. We're falling, old man. If you are in
condition, sit down to it and do a little computing- see how things stand.
The computer seems intact," he threw a glance at the machine. "But you'd
better see for yourself."
Mikhail Antonovich's eyes became round.
"Falling?" he said. "Are we? Falling. On Jupiter?"
Bykov nodded.
"Well, well, well," said Mikhail Antonovich. "Just imagine that! O.K.
Just a second. I'll be at it in a second."
He stood for a while, wincing and jerking his head, then let go of the
captain and, clutching at the edge of the control panel, hobbled to his
place.
"I'll do the computing," he mumbled. "Right away."
Bykov watched him sink into his chair, his hand pressed to his side,
then settle more comfortably, grunting and sighing. The chair was bent and
sagged to one side. When quite comfortable, Mikhail Antonovich shot his eyes
at Bykov and said in alarm:
"But you've braked, old chap, haven't you?"
Bykov nodded and went to Zhilin over the scattered debris crunching
underfoot. On the ceiling he noticed a black spot and another one right
where a wall joined it. They were meteoric holes filled in with synthetic
resin. Large drops of condensed water trembled round the spots.
Zhilin was sitting cross-legged in front of the reflector control
combine. Its casing was split in two, its innards looking anything but
encouraging.
"How're things?" Bykov asked, though he could see for himself.
Zhilin raised a swollen face.
"Don't know all the details yet," he said. "But it's smashed all
right."
Bykov squatted by his side.
"One meteoric hit," said Zhilin. "And twice I barged into this," with
his finger he pointed but it was obvious where he meant anyway. "Feet first
at the very beginning and head first at the very end."
"I see," said Bykov. "No apparatus could have stood that, of course.
Rig up the spare. And another thing-we're falling."
"I heard you first time, Alexei Petrovich," said Zhilin.
"Come to that," Bykov said musingly, "what's the use of a control
combine if the reflector's smashed."
"But what if it isn't?" said Zhilin.
Bykov smiled at him wryly.
"That merry-go-round," he said, "can have either of two explanations.
Either for some reason the plasma burning point jumped out of focus or a
large piece of the reflector broke off. I think it's the reflector because
nobody could have shifted the burning point. But you go on all the same- rig
up the spare set."
He rose and threw back his head to examine the ceiling.
"Must patch up the holes better," he said. "Pressure's high down
there-might force the resin out. Well, I'll see to it."
He turned to go but halted and said:
"Not afraid, are you, youngster?"
"No," said Zhilin.
"Good. Carry on," said Bykov. "I'll make a round of her and then
there're passengers to be hauled out of the acceleration absorbers."
Zhilin didn't say anything. He watched the captain's broad stooped back
out of sight and then suddenly at arm's length saw Varya. She stood upright,
her prominent eyes winking slowly. She was white-specked blue all over and
the bosses on her muzzle stuck out in a terrifying manner. That meant she
was very much annoyed and feeling unwell. Zhilin had once seen her in that
state before. That had been a month ago on the Mirza-Charle spacedrome when
Yurkovsky harangued them on the amazing adaptability of Martian lizards and
to prove it dipped Varya into a tank of boiling water.
Varya opened her huge grey Jaws in a spasm and then snapped them shut.
"Well, how about you?" Zhilin said softly. A heavy drop tore off the
ceiling and smack! hit the burst combine casing. Zhilin looked up. High
pressure down there. Yes, he thought, tens and hundreds of thousands of
atmospheres. The resin stoppers would certainly get forced out.
Varya stirred and opened her jaws again. Zhilin rummaged in his pocket,
found a biscuit and tossed it into the yawning mouth. Varya swallowed slowly
and stared away glassily. Zhilin sighed.
"You poor beast," he said softly.
2. The planetologists keep guilty silence while the radio astronomer
sings a song about swallows
As soon as the Tahmasib stopped somersaulting Dauge disengaged himself
from the breech and pulled the unconscious Yurkovsky from under bits of
smashed equipment. He hadn't stopped to see what was smashed and what
wasn't, but noticed that plenty was, that the bomb-rack was all bent and the
control panel of the radiotelescope buried under bomb-cases. It was hot in
the bay and there was a pungent smell of something burnt.
He had got off fairly lightly. The moment the ship was hit he clutched
bulldog-like at the breech until blood seeped under his nails and was worse
off only by a splitting headache now. Yurkovsky's face was ashen and his
lids lilac. Dauge blew into his face, shook him by the shoulders, slapped
his cheeks. Yurkovsky's head was lolling and he showed no signs of coming
to. Then Dauge dragged him to the sick bay. In the gangway it was terribly
cold, with hoarfrost sparkling on the walls. Dauge put Yurkovsky's head in
his lap, scraped a little hoarfrost off a wall and pressed it to his
temples. That was where the step-up in acceleration found him. Dauge lay
flat, but felt so bad that he turned on his stomach and rubbed his face
against the hoarfrosted floor. After the acceleration was off Dauge lay a
little longer, then struggled up and, seizing Yurkovsky under the arm-pits,
dragged him, backing, farther. But he soon realised he wouldn't make it to
the sick bay, so he dragged Yurkovsky into the mess room and on to a sofa,
and plopped down at his side, grunting and catching breath. Yurkovsky was
wheezing horribly.
Having recovered a little, Dauge got up and went to the sideboard. He
took a jug of water and drank from it. Water trickled down his chin and
throat and he found it most pleasant. Then he went back to Yurkovsky and
sprinkled his face. He put the jug down on the floor and unbuttoned
Yurkovsky's jacket. There was a strange pattern of winding lines running
across /his chest from shoulder to shoulder. The pattern looked like a bunch
of seaweeds-purplish against the sun-tanned skin. For some time Dauge
stared, understanding nothing, then all of a sudden it struck him that it
was the mark of a violent electric shock. Apparently Yurkovsky had fallen on
some bare contacts under high voltage. Dauge ran to the sick bay.
He had made four injections altogether before Yurkovsky at last opened
his eyes. They were dull and glassy but Dauge was overjoyed.
"You gave me quite a turn, Vladimir," he said with relief. "I thought
things were really bad. Well, can you get up now?"
Yurkovsky moved his lips, opened his mouth and wheezed again. His eyes
assumed meaning, his brows pressed together.
"There, there, don't move," said Dauge. "You'd better stay on your back
for a while."
He turned and saw Charles Mollard in the doorway. He was swaying,
steadying himself against the jamb. His face was red and swollen, and he was
dripping wet and festooned all over with something white and worm-like.
Dauge even fancied that he was steaming. For a few minutes Mollard did not
say a word, shifting his sad eyes from Dauge to Yurkovsky and back, while
the planetologists stared in confusion at him. Yurkovsky even stopped
wheezing. Presently Mollard swayed forward, stepped over the coaming and
went straight to the nearest chair. He looked wet and miserable and when he
sat down a tasty smell of boiled meat filled the room. Dauge sniffed.
"Soup?" he enquired.
"Oui, monsieur," Mollard confirmed sadly. "Vermicelli soup."
"And how's the soup? Good?" asked Dauge.
"Good," said Mollard and started picking vermicelli off himself.
"I like soup very much," Dauge explained. "And I always ask how it is."
Mollard sighed and smiled.
"No more soup," he said. "It was very hot soup. But the water was no
longer boiling."
"Good God," said Dauge, who couldn't help bursting into laughter.
Mollard laughed with him.
"Yes," he shouted. "It was very funny but not comfortable and the soup
is all gone."
Yurkovsky wheezed. His face contorted and flushed purple. Dauge looked
at him with alarm.
"Voldemar knocked badly?" asked Mollard.
Craning his neck he glanced at Yurkovsky with mixed fear and curiosity.
"Voldemar had an electric shock," said Dauge. He was no longer
grinning.
"But what happened?" said Mollard. "It was so uncomfortable...."
Yurkovsky stopped wheezing, sat up and, baring his teeth horribly,
began searching in his breast pocket.
"What's up, Vladimir?" Dauge asked, at a loss.
"Voldemar can't speak," Mollard said softly.
Yurkovsky nodded rapidly, got his fountain-pen and pad out and began
writing, his head jerking.
"Don't upset yourself so, Vladimir," Dauge mumbled. "It'll be all right
in no time."
"Yes," Mollard confirmed. "I had the same experience. It was high
voltage and I was all right very soon."
Yurkovsky gave the pad to Dauge, lay back and shut his eyes.
" 'Can't speak'," Dauge made out with difficulty. "Don't worry,
Vladimir, it'll pass." Yurkovsky jerked impatiently. "Well, just a moment.
'What about Alexei and the pilots? And the ship?' "
"I don't know," Dauge said in confusion and glanced towards the control
room. "Hell, I forgot everything."
Yurkovsky jerked his head and also looked at the door.
"I'll find out," said Mollard. "I'll find out everything."
He rose from his chair, but at that moment the manhole to the control
room was opened and in strode Captain Bykov, huge, dishevelled, with a
violently purple nose and a black right eye. He measured them all with his
small, irate eyes, went up to the table, put his fists on it and asked:
"Why are the passengers not in their acceleration absorbers?"
It was said very quietly, but in a tone that instantly wiped off
Mollard's happy smile. A tense silence descended. Dauge smiled a small
awkward smile and looked aside, and Yurkovsky again shut his eyes. Things
look bad, thought Yurkovsky. He knew his Bykov.
"When are we going to have discipline on board this ship?" Bykov said.
The passengers were silent.
"You kids," Bykov said in disgust and sat down. "It's a madhouse.
What's happened to you, Monsieur Mollard?" he asked in a tired voice.
"It's the soup," Mollard said readily. "I'll go and clean myself at
once."
"Wait a minute, Monsieur Mollard," said Bykov.
"Where ... where are we?" Yurkovsky wheezed out.
"We're falling," Bykov said briefly.
Yurkovsky started and sat up.
"Where ... where to?" he asked.
"Into Jupiter," said Bykov. He was not looking at the planetologists.
He was looking at Mollard. He felt sorry for him. It was his first real
space flight and he was eagerly expected at Amaltheia as a first-class radio
astronomer.
"Oh." said Mollard. "Into Jupiter?"
"That's right," Bykov said and paused, feeling the bump on his
forehead. "The reflector's smashed. Its control is smashed too. There are
eighteen holes in the ship."
"Are we going to burn up?" Dauge asked quickly.
"Don't know-Mikhail's figuring it out. It's possible we aren't."
He fell silent. Mollard said:
"I'll go and clean myself."
"Wait a minute, Charles," said Bykov. "I wonder whether I made myself
sufficiently clear, Comrades? We are falling into Jupiter."
"We understand," said Dauge.
"We'll be falling into Jupiter all our lives," said Mollard. Bykov
glanced at him sharply sideways.
"Well said," said Yurkovsky.
"C'est un mot," said Mollard. He was smiling happily. "May I ... may I
go and clean myself nevertheless?"
"Yes, go," Bykov said slowly.
Mollard went out. They all watched him go. Then they heard him start up
a song in the gangway, in a weak but pleasant voice.
"What is he singing?" asked Bykov. Mollard had never sung before.
Dauge listened and then translated:
" 'Two swallows kiss each other outside the window of my spaceship. In
the void. How did they get there? They love each other dearly and they
ripped it there to admire the stars. Tra-la-la. But what do you care?' Or
something like that."
"Tra-la-la," Bykov said musingly. "Damn good!"
"You tr-tr-translate m-m-masterfully," said Yurkovsky. "Ripped it
there. P-p-piece of art."
Bykov threw an astonished glance at him.
"What's that, Vladimir?" he asked. "What's happened to you?"
"St-st-stutterer for the r-r-rest of my life," Yurkovsky replied with a
crooked smile.
"He's had an electric shock," Dauge said quietly.
Bykov pursed his lips.
"Well, cheer up," he said. "We've been through worse scrapes."
But he knew they'd never had it so bad before -neither he nor the
planetologists. Through the half-open manhole came Mikhail Antonovich's
voice:
"I'm ready, Alexei."
"Come in here," said Bykov.
Mikhail Antonovich, fat and scratched, rolled into the mess room. The
upper portion of his body was stripped bare and glistening with sweat.
"Br, isn't it cold?" he said, clasping his fat chest with his pudgy
hands. "But it's terribly hot in there."
"Fire away, Mikhail," Bykov said impatiently.
"But what's happened to Vladimir?" the navigator asked in a frightened
voice.
"Come on," said Bykov. "He's had an electric shock."
"And where's Charles," the navigator asked, sitting down.
"Charles is alive and kicking," Bykov said, hardly able to control
himself. "So's everybody. Come on, out with it."
"Thank God," said the navigator. "Well, boys. I've done a little
computing and here's what it adds up to. The Tahmasib is falling and we
haven't enough fuel to pull her out."
"Clear as noonday," Yurkovsky said almost without stuttering.
"Not enough fuel. The photon reactor could do that but it seems the
reflector is smashed. But we have enough fuel for braking. So I've drawn up
a programme. We're not going to burn up provided the generally-recognised
theory of Jupiter's structure is correct."
Dauge wanted to say there was no generally-recognised theory of
Jupiter's structure and never had been, but desisted.
"We're already braking quite well," went on Mikhail Antonovich. "So I
believe we'll have a safe fall. Beyond that nothing can be done, boys."
Mikhail Antonovich smiled guiltily. "Unless, of course, we repair the
reflector."
"There are no repair stations on Jupiter," Bykov said in a croaking
voice. "Any theory on Jupiter will tell you that." He wanted them to
understand. To understand right and thoroughly. It still seemed to him they
didn't.
"Which theory do you take as generally recognised?" asked Dauge.
Mikhail Antonovich shrugged a plump shoulder.
"Kangren's theory," he said.
Bykov looked at the planetologists in expectation.
"Well," said Dauge. "Might as well take Kangren's."
Yurkovsky was staring at the ceiling.
"Look here, planetologists," Bykov tackled them. "What's waiting for us
down there? Can you tell us that, experts?"
"Why, of course," said Dauge. "We'll tell you that pretty soon."
"When?" Bykov said, brightening.
"When we are down there," Dauge said and grinned.
"Planetologists!" said Bykov. "Some experts!"
"It could be calculated," Yurkovsky said, still staring at the ceiling.
He spoke slowly, almost without a stutter. "Let Mikhail calculate at what
depth the ship will stop falling and hang in balance."
"That's interesting," said Mikhail Antonovich.
"According to Kangren, pressure inside Jupiter is increasing fast. What
you should calculate, Mikhail, is the eventual depth of immersion, pressure,
pull of gravity."
"Yes," said Dauge. "What will the pressure be? Perhaps we'll just be
flattened."
"Hardly," Bykov growled. "We can bear two hundred thousand atmospheres.
And the photon reactor and the hydrogen engines even more."
Yurkovsky sat up, crossing his legs.
"Kangren's theory is as good as any," he said. "It will give you the
order of magnitude." He looked at the navigator. "We could do it ourselves
but you've got the computer."
"Of course," said Mikhail Antonovich. "What's there to discuss? Of
course I'll do it, boys."
Bykov said:
"Mikhail, get the programme for me, will you, and then feed it into the
cyber."
"I've fed it in, Alexei old chap," the navigator said guiltily.
"Aha," said Bykov. "Well, all right." He rose. "There you are. It's all
clear now. We won't be crushed, of course, but neither will we ever come
back. Let's face it. Well, we're not the first. An honest end to an honest
life. Zhilin and I are going to tinker a little with the reflector, but it's
so-" he made a wry face and twitched his swollen nose. "What will you be
doing?"
"Observing," Yurkovsky said harshly. Dauge nodded.
"Very good." Bykov threw a searching glance at them. "I want to ask you
something. Look after Mollard."
"Yes, of course," said Mikhail Antonovich. "He's new to it and ...
well, all sorts of things happen . .. you know."
"All right, Alexei," Dauge said, smiling cheerfully. "Don't worry.
We'll look after him."
"So that's that," said Bykov. "You, Misha, go to the control room and
do all the calculations that are needed, while I hop over to the sick bay
for a massage. I've had my side knocked about rather badly." Leaving, he
heard Dauge say to Yurkovsky:
"In a certain sense we've been lucky, Vladimir, we'll see something
nobody's seen before. Let's go and do the repairs."
"Y-yes, c-come on," said Yurkovsky. Well, you won't fool me, thought
Bykov. You still don't understand. You still have hope. You think Alexei
will pull