Tales of Pirx the Pilot (20 page)

The woman was still reading. Why do women have to dye their hair like that? That color was enough to turn… But on her it worked, somehow. Now, if he just had a cigarette in his hand, he thought, the right words would pop into his mouth automatically. He reached into his pocket.

The moment he whipped out the cigarette case—a present from Boman, which he kept out of friendship, never having owned one before in his life—it felt a little heavier than usual. Just a shade. But heavier it was. Was the ship accelerating, or what?

He strained his ears. Sure enough, the engines were pulling at greater thrust. An ordinary passenger might not have noticed; a series of four-ply insulating bulkheads separated the Titan’s engine room from the ship’s living quarters.

Singling out a pale star in one corner of the window frame, Pirx kept a watchful eye on it. If they’re accelerating, he thought, the star will stay put. But if it so much as jiggles…

It jiggled, drifting slowly, but ever so slowly, to one side.

It’s turning along its longitudinal axis, he reckoned.

The Titan was flying through a “cosmic tunnel,” unobstructed by any dust or meteorites—nothing but empty space. The pilot of the Titan, whose job it was to make sure the giant ship had clear passage, flew on ahead at a distance of 1,900 kilometers. The reason? For safety’s sake—even though, under the terms of an agreement negotiated by the United Astronavigation Association, the Transgalactic Line was granted undisputed right-of-way along its segment of the parabola. And ever since unmanned space probes were used to patrol thousands of transuranic sectors, making it possible for meteorite warnings to be issued as much as six hours in advance, the threat of any external hazards had been all but eliminated. The belt—those billion or so meteorites orbiting between Earth and Mars—was kept under special surveillance, whereas the remnants of any vehicles were bound to pass beyond the ecliptic plane. The progress achieved in this area, even since the time Pirx had been flying patrol, was staggering.

With no obstacles to avoid, the Titan had no reason to alter course. But veering off course it was—Pirx no longer had to verify it by the stars, he could feel it in his bones. So confident was he that he could easily have plotted the ship’s trajectory, knowing as he did its velocity, mass, and the rate of stellar displacement.

Something’s up, he thought.

There were no public announcements. Why all the secrecy? A layman when it came to the customs observed aboard luxury liners, he had enough savvy about engine rooms and cockpits to know there were only two courses of action: in the event of an emergency a ship could either maintain its previous velocity … or cut its engines. But the Titan was doing neither…

The whole maneuver lasted a total of four seconds. That meant a forty-five-degree turn. Hm.

The stars once again assumed a stationary position.

They were back on a straight course; yet the cigarette case in Pirx’s hand kept getting heavier.

Steering a straight course and gaining speed at the same time… That cinched it. For a moment he sat perfectly still, then rose to his feet, now feeling the effects of the increased gravitation. The gray-eyed beauty was watching his every move.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing to worry about, ma’am.”

“Something feels different. Do you notice it, too?”

“It’s nothing. Just a little increase in velocity.” Now was his chance to strike up a casual conversation. He gave her the once-over, no longer disturbed by the color of her hair. A real doll.

He shuffled off, leisurely at first, but with each step gradually quickening his pace. She must take me for a mental case, he thought. Colorful wall paintings ran the length of the deck. He passed through a door marked
OFF LIMITS
and headed down a long, deserted corridor, flooded with a bright electric glare. A row of numbered doors. He kept going, relying more on his sense of hearing. Some stairs brought him out on a landing, face-to-face with a metal door.

STELLAR PERSONNEL ONLY
read the sign. Wow, nothing like having fancy names!

No doorknob—by special key only. Which key he lacked. He rubbed his nose in a moment of concentration.

Tap … tap … tatatap … tap … tap…

He waited. The door opened slightly, and a surly, ruddy-complexioned face showed in the crack.

“What can I do for you?”

“I’m from Patrol.”

The door opened wide enough to admit him, and he entered what looked to be an auxiliary control room: double row of steering controls, video screens lining the opposite wall, facing which were several vacant chairs. A small, squat-looking unit was monitoring the pulsating dials. Standing on a narrow side table by the wall were some half-empty cups and saucers. The air was redolent of freshly brewed coffee, and of something that smelled vaguely like heated plastic laced with a whiff of ozone. Another door stood slightly ajar, emitting the purring drone of a transformer.

“An SOS?” he inquired of the man who had let him in. Stocky, with a slight swelling on one side of his face: a toothache kind of swelling; headset band creasing the hair; gray, partially unbuttoned
Transgalactic
uniform emblazoned with lightning insignia. Shirttail hanging out.

“Yes.” A moment’s hesitation. “From Patrol, you say?”

“From the Base. Just back from a two-year tour on the
Transuran.
I’m a navigator. Pirx is the name.”

A handshake.

“Mindell’s mine. Nucleonics.”

Without exchanging another word, the two moved into the adjoining room. It was the communications room. Very big. Ten or more people were huddled around the main transmitter. Two radiotelegraph operators, each equipped with earphones, wrote continuously against a background of clicking instruments, electrical humming, and an incessant, below-decks whine. Swarms of control lights on every wall: the place looked the inside of a trunk exchange. The two radiomen were almost prostrate over their desks; both in shirt sleeves, both with drenched faces—one pale, the other older and more average-looking, with a head scar plainly visible in the place where the headset band made a parting in his hair. Two men were seated a little distance away, one of whom Pirx recognized as the commander.

They were already mildly acquainted. The commander of the Titan was a short, grizzly-haired man with a small poker face. He sat with one leg crossed over the other, seemingly distracted by one of his shoe tips.

Pirx treaded softly up to the radiomen, craned his whole body, and began reading over the shoulder of the man with the head scar.

“…six-eighteen-point-three proceeding at full thrust time of arrival eight-zero-twelve. Out.”

The radioman slid a blank over with his left hand and kept on writing.

“Luna Base to Albatross-4 Aresluna. Check on-board contamination stop answer in Morse stop too far out of range for radio stop how many hours can you maintain emergency thrust stop estimated drift zero-six-point-twenty-one stop. Over.”

“Dasher-2 Aresterra to Luna Base. Am proceeding at full thrust destination Albatross sector sixty-four have overheated reactor but proceeding on course anyway stop am now six milliparsecs away from designated point of SOS. Out.”

The second operator, the more pallid-looking of the two, let out a muffled groan. Immediately everyone leaned over his shoulder. Mindell, the man who had met Pirx at the door, relayed the recorded messages back to the commander while the operator went on transcribing.

“Albatross-4 to all ships. Am lying in orbit, drift ellipsis T-341 sector sixty-five stop breach in hull widening stop leakage in stern bulkheads stop emergency thrust at 3
g
stop reactor going out of control stop multiple damages to main bulkhead stop third-degree on-board contamination and rising in response to emergency thrust stop will attempt to seal leaks am transferring crew to bow. Out.”

As he wrote, the operator’s hands trembled. One of the crew grabbed him by his shirt collar, yanked him to his feet, and rushed him out the door. A short while later he came back—alone—and took the other man’s place.

“He has a brother aboard the Albatross,” he said by way of explanation, addressing no one in particular.

Pirx peered over the older man’s shoulder.

“Luna Base to Albatross-4 Aresluna. The following ships have been dispatched stop Dasher from sector sixty-four Titan from sector sixty-seven Ballistic-8 from sector forty-four Sprite-702 from sector ninety-four stop seal breach in bulkhead stop wear pressure suits behind air locks stop report present course stop.”

“The Albatross!” exclaimed the young operator’s replacement, and everyone craned to read the message:

“Albatross-4 to all ships. Uncontrolled drifting stop leakage in hull stop losing atmosphere stop crew in pressure suits stop engine room flooded with coolant stop screens punctured stop temperature sixty-three degrees in control room stop initial breach in control room sealed stop coolant boiling stop main transmitter flooded stop switching over to radio stop we’ll be waiting for you fellows. Out.”

Practically everyone was smoking, the smoke curling upward in blue ribbons before being sucked out through the vents. Pirx was just rummaging through his pockets, likewise feeling the urge to light up, when someone—he couldn’t tell who—stuck an open pack into his hand. He lit up.

“Mr. Mindell,” said the commander, biting his lip. “Full thrust!”

Mindell registered some momentary astonishment but said nothing.

“Sound the alert?” asked the man seated next to the commander.

“This one’s mine.”

At that, he swung the mike around on its swivel arm and began speaking:

“Titan Aresterra to Albatross-4. We’re proceeding at full thrust. Presently crossing over into your sector. Arrival time one hour. Advise escaping through emergency hatch. We’ll be alongside you in one hour. Hang in there. Hang in there. Out.”

He pushed the mike away and stood up. Mindell was giving orders into the intercom on the other side of the room.

“Okay, gang—full thrust in five minutes.”

“Aye aye,” came the reply on the other end of the line.

The commander stepped out for a moment, his voice trailing in from the other room,

“Attention all passengers! Attention all passengers! I have an important announcement. Four minutes from now there will be a significant increase in the ship’s velocity. We’ve received a distress call and are responding with all due—”

Someone shut the door. Mindell gave Pirx a friendly nudge on the arm.

“Better brace yourself. We’ll be pushing 2
g
or better.”

Pirx nodded. By his standards
2g
was a breeze, but now was not the time to flaunt his physical endurance. Dutifully, therefore, he gripped the armrest of the chair occupied by the older of the two radiomen.

“Albatross-4 to Titan. Won’t last another hour on board stop emergency hatch jammed by exploding bulkheads stop temperature eighty-one degrees in control room stop steaming up fast stop will try to escape by cutting through nose shield. Out.”

Mindell tore the slip of paper out of the operator’s hand and raced out of the room. As he was opening the door, the deck shook slightly and there was an immediate increase in everyone’s bodily weight.

The commander labored into the room, each step costing him obvious physical exertion, and plopped down into a chair. Someone handed him a mike on a cable. In his other hand was the last crumpled radiogram received from the Albatross. The skipper spread it out before him and studied it for a good long while.

“Titan Aresterra to Albatross-4,” he said at last. “Well be there in fifty minutes. Approaching on course eighty-four-point-fifteen stop eighty-one-point-two stop abandon ship. Abandon ship. We’ll find you. Hang in there. Out.”

The man sitting in for the younger operator, his tunic now unbuttoned, suddenly sprang to his feet and shot an urgent glance at the commander, who came over on the double. The operator yanked off his earphones, handed them to the skipper, who slipped them on over his head and listened while the other man adjusted the crackling loudspeaker. A split second later, everyone froze.

In that room were veterans of many years’ flight experience, but what they heard now was unprecedented. A voice—barely audible, accompanied by a protracted roar, as if trapped behind a wall of flame—was shouting:

“Albatross … every man … coolant in cockpit … temperature unbearable … crew standing by to the end … so long … all lines … out…”

The voice faded, being gradually overwhelmed by the roar in the background.

Then—only loudspeaker static. It took no small effort to keep on one’s feet—yet all remained standing, hunched over and braced against the metal bulkheads.

“Ballistic-8 to Luna Base,” a voice suddenly piped up, loud and clear. “Am proceeding to Albatross-4. Request clearance through sector sixty-seven. Proceeding at full thrust—will be impossible to carry out any passing maneuvers. Over.”

There was a pause lasting several seconds.

“Luna Base to all ships in sectors sixty-six, sixty-seven, sixty-eight, forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight, ninety-six. All sectors closed. All ships not proceeding at full thrust for Albatross-4 are to stop immediately, place reactors on idling, and switch on navigation lights. Attention, Dasher! Attention, Titan Aresterra! Attention, Ballistic-8! Attention, Sprite-702! I’m giving you a clear field to Albatross-4. All traffic within radius vector of SOS has been halted. Commence braking one milliparsec in advance of SOS point. Be careful to extinguish braking rockets once you have Albatross on video—crew may already have abandoned ship. Good luck. Good luck. Out.”

Dasher was the first to respond—in Morse. Pirx listened closely to the bleeping signals.

“Dasher Aresterra to all rescue ships. Have entered Albatross’s sector. Will be joining her in eighteen minutes stop reactor overheated cooling system damaged stop will need medical assistance following rescue operation stop am commencing braking maneuver at full thrust. Out.”

“The guy’s nuts,” someone muttered, prompting those standing—until now so stock-still they looked more like statues—to search out the culprit with their eyes. An angry murmur passed through the men, then quickly subsided.