Ben Bova - Voyagers

And Stoner realized that he felt reluctant, rebellious, unwilling to leave the freedom of space and return to the metal confines of the spacecraft.

“Shtoner,” he heard Federenko’s voice in his earphones.

“Yes.”

“Checkout is complete. Return to air lock.”

He gazed at the Earth, huge and glowing and heart-achingly beautiful. Turning, he looked out into the depths of starry space. He knew what Odysseus heard when the sirens sang their beckoning call to him.

“Shtoner! Can you hear?”

With an effort he wrenched his gaze back to their tiny, lumpy spacecraft. “Yes, yes, I hear you. I’m coming back in.”

But even as he ducked into the air lock and swung its hatch shut, his eyes stayed fixed on the stars until the heavy metal hatch cut off all view of them.

Jo sat at the computer console and watched the numbers and symbols flashing across the glowing green background of its readout screen.

The Russian computer technicians tolerated her at the mission control center. They had given her a console to sit at where she could watch the progress of the mission, one of the hundreds of computer consoles that stretched in long rows across the vast, buzzing room. Up at the front of the control center were huge picture screens and an electronic map that showed where the various spacecraft—the Soyuz, the Salyut orbital station and the alien ship—were in relation to the Earth and the Moon.

The technical staff tolerated an American woman in the center, but the security authorities were clearly on guard. Jo was escorted by armed, uniformed policemen to and from the command center. Markov sat just behind her, nervously smoking cigarettes and tugging at his beard. Often his wife would come in and sit beside him. She also wore some kind of uniform, although Jo didn’t know which branch of the service she was in and didn’t really care.

The controls at her console were for readout only. Jo was here as an observer, and the Russian authorities had made it clear that she was not a participant in the mission. Even the way they said “observer” made it obvious that the word was semantically equivalent to “spy” in their lexicon.

She could watch, she could observe, but she could not help.

She looked around the huge control complex. The tension of the first few hours had worn away. There was a quiet, almost drowsy air to the center. Even Markov seemed more relaxed, in the seat behind hers. The Soyuz had passed the Moon’s orbit nearly forty-eight hours ago. Stoner and Federenko were farther from Earth than anyone had ever flown before.

Trailing behind them, she saw on the huge electronic map, was the unmanned tanker that had been launched from the United States. It was moving on a different track, one that would converge with the Soyuz a few hours before Stoner and Federenko came within sight of the alien.

They’ll be busy then, Jo knew. And so will we.

In another twenty hours the control center would be crackling with activity: first overseeing the link-up with the unmanned tanker, and then the actual rendezvous with the alien itself.

But now all was quiet. Half the consoles were unoccupied, and the technicians who were at their posts seemed at ease, almost nonchalant. Even the few who were speaking into their lip microphones or fingering the switches and dials of their consoles had no appearance of urgency about them.

It’s going well, Jo thought. He’s safe. And it’s too late to sabotage the mission. All the boosters have worked perfectly, all the vehicles are on their courses. Keith is safe, nearly a million miles from Earth.

Stoner scratched drowsily at his stubbly beard. It was starting to itch, and he longed for a hot bath. Federenko, just as grubby and tired-looking, sat calmly in his seat at Stoner’s left, checking the mission schedule. The command module smelled of sweat and body heat.

“Separating supply module is no problem,” Federenko was explaining. “Explosive bolts snap cable and push it away.”

“That’s the fourth time in the past hour you’ve told me,” Stoner replied. “It’s worrying you, isn’t it?”

“No, no. Is no problem.”

“Something’s bothering you, Nikolai.”

The Russian’s unshaven face sank into a dark frown. “Not worry, Shtoner. But I see problem.”

“The tanker?”

“Da. We must link with it before attempting to rendezvous with alien, according to flight plan.”

“I know.”

“But latest radar shows tanker is not in best position for us. Trajectory is deviating from plan.”

“We can still reach it, can’t we?”

Federenko nodded somberly. “But will take more maneuvering fuel than planned. Leaves less fuel for making rendezvous maneuvers with alien.”

Stoner thought a moment. “We could let the tanker go and save our maneuvering fuel for the rendezvous.”

“And have no propellant left for return to Earth,” Federenko said.

“They could send up another tanker.”

With a grim laugh, Federenko said, “In how long? Two days? Two weeks?”

“They’ve got a backup at Cape Canaveral; they were holding it in case the first tanker didn’t get off okay.”

“By the time backup tanker is launched we would be on same trajectory as alien—heading out of solar system. Second tanker not reach us at all.”

“Shit.”

“We must link with tanker,” Federenko said firmly, “even if it means no rendezvous with alien.”

“Christ, Nikolai! We’ve come all this way to make contact with that bird!”

“Is true,” the Russian replied calmly. “But I have no desire to meet alien and never return to Earth. Do you?”

Stoner did not answer.

“Don’t worry,” Markov said. “They can easily reach the tanker. They have plenty of fuel for that, according to the mission controllers.”

He was sitting next to Jo at the dining table in the common room of their barracks. Maria sat on his other side, spooning cold borscht to her lips. Across the table one of the Chinese physicists picked at his dinner.

“But they won’t have enough fuel left to make contact with the alien,” Jo said. Her bowl of borscht sat in front of her, untouched.

Markov shrugged and said lightly, “So they will get as close as they can, take a few thousand photographs and then return home. If that’s the best they can do, then that is what they will do.”

But Jo could feel cold tendrils of fear tracing along her veins. “Keith won’t settle for that. He wants to get aboard the alien spacecraft.”

“Federenko is an experienced cosmonaut,” Markov insisted. “He won’t allow anything that would jeopardize their safety.”

“But Keith…”

“What can he do?” Markov asked, gesturing. “Overpower Federenko and steer the Soyuz to the alien? That’s nonsense.”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Jo said.

“Besides,” Markov tried a different tack, “Federenko is a fine pilot. The pride of the Soviet cosmonaut corps. I’ll bet you that he links their ship with the tanker and still has plenty of fuel afterward for their rendezvous with the alien.”

“I hope you’re right,” Jo said, not believing a word of it.

“But why do you have to go?” she asked.

He gave another exasperated sigh. “For the twentieth time, Marge: I’ve been ordered to go.”

“But you’re not an astronaut. They can’t order you to fly into space!”

“The hell they can’t.”

“You’re a medical doctor, not an astronaut.”

“I’m a colonel in Uncle Sam’s Army, and when the orders come down from the White House, I salute smartly and say, ‘Yes, sir.’ ”

“You want to go!”