Гарри Гаррисон - Skyfall

GET 33.14

“What do they say about the fuel?” Decosta asked.

“Almost done,” Cooke told him.

“And about time too. This is a very uncomfortable position to lie around in.”

Both pilots were strapped into their seats in the Orbiter flight deck, in normal flying position. But the Orbiter had the dual role of being both space vehicle during takeoff and operation in orbit, then airplane when the time came to land. The two pilots sat in their stations, their seats more like those of an ordinary cockpit than a space vehicle. Perfect for maneuvering and landing, but uncomfortable now since the vehicle was standing on its tail, pointing straight up into the air. Like sitting in a chair that was lying back down on the floor.

“What about the couches?” Decosta said, speaking into the microphone.

“Locking into place now,” the cargo engineer's voice said.

“And the walk-arounds?”

“Stowing them in the airlock….”

“No! Not good enough.” Decosta began pulling at his belt fastening.

“And what do you think you are doing?” Cooke asked.

“Getting the hell down there and putting things right.”

“You're out of your gourd! We've less than twenty minutes to zero, we're into the countdown now. We can't ready for takeoff with you rattling around there.”

“You just might have to. This is not the usual operation.” He was moving as he spoke, climbing about his chair until he hung from the back of it — then dropped the five feet to the rear wall of the aft flight deck, now a floor. “We're not going to have much time up there. I want that gear set up so I can use it instantly without extra farting around.”

He dropped through the interdeck opening into mid deck below.

“If you're not back on time I'm leaving without you,” Cooke called out to his vanishing back.

The bulk of the airlock was like a closet lying on its back next to him. Decosta undogged it and heaved it open. He looked straight down through the airlock and the open outer door beyond at the vast open area of the cargo bay below, its far end a sheer drop of sixty feet. A cherry-picker cage was just beyond the airlock hatch and he stared into the shocked face of the technician there.

“You're not supposed to be here, Captain,” he said.

“Blame my mother, I was premature. Move over.”

Decosta climbed down into the airlock, swung from the edge of the outer hatch — then dropped neatly down in the cage. Trying to ignore the sheer fall beyond. The cage bounced with his sudden weight and they both clutched the rail.

“You're gonna give me a heart attack,” the technician groaned.

“Are these the walk-arounds?” Decosta asked, pointing to the oxygen bottles on the floor of the cage.

“Yes, sir. I was gonna lash them — “

“Forget it, I have a better idea. Drop us down.”

They moved slowly down the length of the bay, between the wide-gaping jaws of the open doors. This great tubular cargo space, sixty feet long and fifteen wide, was usually filled either with cargo or the palletized experiments bolted into place. Or a satellite like the one so recently removed. The only cargo now was a single pallet that was sealed into place just behind the cabin. Four acceleration couches had been roughly welded to it. They were askew, not lined up in a neat row, and the welds were bumpy and uneven. But they were secure and they were in place in time — nothing else counted now.

“Down to the bottom,” Decosta said, pointing. “To the end effector on the end of the manipulator arm.”

The remote manipulator arm ran almost the length of the cargo bay, a jointed tube fifty feet long. It was absurdly thin for its length and the motors in its joints were scarcely able to move its own weight now, because it was designed for operation in space only, in free fall, beyond the reach of gravity. At its far end was a jaw-like mechanism designed to seize the cargo and lift it free. Decosta looked at it, thinking fast, thinking of what the situation would be like in space.

“Hey, Captain,” the technician on the nearby tower wearing earphones and microphone called out. “Major Cooke says you have only fifteen minutes left.”

“I know, I know,” Decosta called back, beginning to sweat now. “Take this thing down to the bottom end of the cargo bay and let's unload the walk-arounds.”

Decosta jumped out onto the circular platform and took the heavy oxygen tanks the technician handed him, placing them in a row at his feet. “Do you have any nylon rope?” he asked.

“Yeah. White and red…”

“Pass me the white.”

As quickly as he could he lashed the walk-arounds side by side to the ring bolts set into the metal. He used a single length of line, weaving it back and forth over the tanks, then securing. A single cut anywhere in the line would free them.

“Knife.”

The technician handed him a heavy pocket knife. He opened the large blade, cut the line — then reached for the end of the red line and passed it quickly through the clasps on each walk-around, tying them together. He climbed back into the cage.

“To the end of the manipulator.”

The cage rose and he let the line reel out behind it.

“You got about eight minutes left!” the communications man called out. “It takes us that long for the final check and to close and dog those doors.”

“Almost done.” He slashed the line off and tied the free end to the end of the manipulator. Then he cut off another short length and used it to tie the knife close beside it, dangling free on a foot of line.

“Hey, that's my knife!” the technician called out.

“It's about to take a trip. Put in a statement of charges. Now get us out of here.”

The cage rose up, higher and higher, until it hovered just under the door to the airlock above. The outer doors of the cargo bay were slowly closing at the same time, Decosta put one foot on the rail of the basket and, with the technician steadying him, managed to reach up and grab the opening. Pulling, and pushing against the groaning man's shoulder with one foot, he worked his way up into the airlock, the door slammed shut and sealed right behind him.

“Get up here!” he heard Cooke shouting. “Christ, we're in the countdown. Two minutes to takeoff. I can't wait.”

“Coming. .” the pilot gasped, closing and sealing the door, climbing hurriedly up the handholds on the wall, grabbing out for the lip of the opening in the floor above. He looked up, gasping, into Cooke's strained face.

“Thirty seconds!” Cooke shouted. “Pumps going, ignition coming up, strap in, damn it — strap in!”

Decosta pulled himself into his chair with the last of his strength, grabbed for the ends of his belt — as the engines fired.

Roaring out streams of flame, the Space Shuttle lifted, moved faster and faster, rising up towards its rendezvous in space.

“The Shuttle is go,” Flax said, his words sounding in the ears of all four aboard Prometheus. “One minute into the burn.”

Patrick had flown the Shuttle more than once so he knew what was happening, knew the sensations of the two men piloting her. The first burn, the big kick by the solid fuel boosters. Three minutes of their firing along with the Orbiter engines as well. Then, one hundred and sixty miles down-range…

“Burn out, separation.”

The two big tubes, empty now, arching away, falling back towards the Atlantic Ocean. Then the snap of their parachutes and the slow drop towards the retrieval ships waiting below. But the Orbiter was still climbing, still sucking the last drops of fuel from the external tank, still not in orbit. Any trouble now and the Orbiter would have to fall back to Earth. They wouldn't make it. What was happening?