Гарри Гаррисон - Skyfall

“That'll be fine as long as you get here on time. It will give you about twenty minutes for the approach and exit. Might I suggest you make the approach a good one and get us on the first pass.”

“Suggestion accepted, Pat. I will do my goddamnedest.”

“I know you will, Cookey. Out.”

Nadya waited until the radio connection was broken before she spoke. “Do we have time to repressurize and evacuate this cabin again before hook-up?” she asked.

“Yes, more than enough time,” Patrick said.

“Could we please, my eyes. . there is discomfort, a little pain perhaps.”

“You should have said something — Gregor, pressurize, you know where the controls are.” Patrick groped out through their darkness until his fingers found the other couch, felt along it until he reached her arm, her hand. He held it tightly, realizing that they had forgotten about her and she had not bothered them while they got on with the job. Blind, locked in her pressure suit, uncomplaining.

“I'm sorry,” Patrick said.

“Don't be silly. You have done everything possible for all of us.”

“Pressure,” Gregor said, loosening his helmet and removing it. After the stink of his own body inside the suit even the canned, recycled air of the cabin smelled good. Coretta had her helmet o(f now and was helping Nadya with hers.

“I'm going to put a fresh dressing on and give you a shot,” she said.

“I don't want to sleep.” There was a sharpness in Nadya's voice that had not been there before.

“Don't worry, honey. Just a little one for the pain. And for Patrick too.”

She bent efficiently to her task and Gregor watched her. Her hair was rich and dark, a contrast to his blond curls. And her skin; brown, warm, soft. She was different from anyone he had ever met before. He wanted to bend and kiss her throat, there above the hard neckring of her suit. He did not, did not want to interrupt. Instead he looked up at the numbers clicking over on the GET, then out of the port at the darkness.

“When Coretta is finished we must depressurize. I must go and finish HOOPSNAKE.”

“No!” Coretta gasped out the words, turning about. “We don't have to now, they're coming to get us.”

“That does not alter the fact that this spacecraft must be destroyed completely. For the benefit of the people below.”

“But you heard Mission Control, they think it will hit the ocean---”

“ Think is not good enough. There is just as good a chance it will strike California. I must not allow that chance to be taken.”

“I'm afraid we have no choice,” Patrick said. “We did our best but I don't think you'll be able to finish the job. There's a very good chance that the AMU was carried away, if the debris was as heavy as you say. Without it you won't be able to get back to the engines again.”

“I hadn't thought!” Gregor said. He pushed off, floundered, slammed into the wall by the port, then righted and pressed his face closely against the cold glass. He could see the outside of the hatch. Nothing else.

“It is gone,” he said wearily. “That is the end of it.”

Coretta broke the disposable hypodermic needles in two and pushed them into the waste holder, then went over to him. She had moved too fast, forgetting, and had to grab him as she floated up so she would not hit too hard. She held onto his arms and did not let go.

“Why so sad? We did our best. No one's to blame.”

He gazed at the pilots, at their bandaged faces, a look of pain cut deep into his face. When he spoke it was a soft whisper that only she could hear. “I wanted to do it, it was important. Look at them, there, blinded, perhaps forever. It was my country that did that and I am ashamed. I thought we could, I could, make up for it somehow by putting things right. Destroying Prometheus. Destroying the threat to the world.”

“But you heard the radio. It wasn't the Soviet Union that sent up the bomb. Just one man…”

Gregor smiled crookedly and raised his gloved fingers to her lips.

“You are a child, darogaya, a lovely woman yet a child when you say that. Accidents like that don't happen in my country. It was planned, a scrapegoat was found….”

“It's a scapegoat, not a scrapegoat, and I believe anything you say. But there's nothing you can do about it now — except put it from your mind. If that bus gets here in time we'll be alive and out of it and back in the State of Florida in time for dinner.”

Her dark eyes were wide open, staring into his blue ones, as she leaned forward and kissed him full on the mouth. The metal collar rings of their suits clattered together and she had to lean far out so their lips could meet. It could have been funny, two thick figures swaddled in fabric and plastic, holding to each other like shapeless bundles. It could have been funny, but it was not. He kissed her as she did him, eyes open, saying more than words ever could.

“What is the GET?” Patrick asked suddenly.

“34:23,” Coretta answered, drawing back from Gregor and looking up at the numbers.

“Time to depressurize. Helmets on. Take care of that, Gregor, when we're all secured. The Orbiter will be making the final approach now.”

“Prometheus, I have you on electronic ranging and we are closing, “Cooke said.

“We are waiting for you, Orbiter. Our hatch is open and we are standing by.”

“Burn is complete and we're closing at one two oh feet per second.”

“There they are!” Decosta called out as Prometheus swam into view. Cooke nodded, hands busy at the controls.

“We have you in sight now, looks like we're making a high side pass. Your crew module is in the shadow of the payload so I don't know if hatch alignment is in the green.”

“My people here are on the lookout — they see you now. Coming in just fine. Our hatch is about thirty degrees away from earthside your approach.”

“Okay, Pat. I'll lift a bit and roll as we come in. A piece of cake.”

Of course it wasn't. Cooke knew he had to get it right the first time because there could be no second attempt. Right so far. 2,727 feet out, closing at 19.7 feet per second. He hit the forward gas jets. I,370 feet, 9.8 feet per second. The spacecraft grew steadily larger, closer.

“Good thing they are carrying their payload on their nose,” Decosta said. “All burned to hell. Better it than them.” He turned his oxygen on, then put on his helmet. “Radio connection okay?” he asked.

“Fine.”

“I'm getting the doors open, the tanks ready.”

He dived in headfirst through the floor hatch, kicked off the wall and grabbed the dogging handle of the airlock, twisting it, pulling up on the door. Once inside he sealed it behind him and punched the bleed valve. The pressure reading wound down and down until the red evacuation light blinked on. The outer door of the airlock opened easily and just outside it were the door controls. Decosta trained his light on them, switched the selector to open and pressed the activate button. A crack of light appeared, widened, as the curved, sixty-foot-long doors began to swing back. Light poured in and he could see the base of the remote manipulator no more than a yard away. He moved off towards it, seized it, and using it as a guide pushed himself the length of the cavernous hold, to the far end. As he went he permitted himself only one quick glimpse of Prometheus.

It was no more than a hundred yards away and closing smoothly. An immense scarred cylinder in space, two hundred and fifty feet long. The crew module was still in the shadow of the payload but he knew they were there, waiting for him.

“On the way,” he said, grabbing the working end of the manipulator as he came to it. The knife was just where he had left it, floating free at the end of the length of line. He reached out carefully and grabbed the handle, then used the blade to sever the line where he had tied it. An easy steady push sent him floating the last ten feet to the end where the walk-arounds were lashed, to grab the ropes and saw through a length of white nylon, to pull it free loop after loop.