Jack McDevitt - POLARIS

BELLE:

Gently… It probably won’t work after all this time.

LANDER:

Wait one… No, I’m in business… It’s open. I’m in.

BELLE:

Very good, Alex.

LANDER:

I’m inside the airlock. Trying the inner hatch.

BELLE:

There may still be air pressure on the other side.

LANDER:

Apparently not. It’s opening up.

BELLE:

Keep in mind, you have a two-hour air supply. And I want to see you back at the airlock in ninety minutes. Okay?

LANDER:

I’m through. I’m in a tunnel, Chase.

BELLE:

Acknowledge my last.

LANDER:

What did you say?

BELLE:

Back in ninety minutes.

LANDER:

No problem.

BELLE:

Say it. I will be back within ninety minutes.

LANDER:

I will be back within ninety minutes.

BELLE:

What can you see?

LANDER:

Nothing but rock.

BELLE:

It figures. It’s a service hatch. Regular traffic would have been in and out through the docking areas.

LANDER:

The tunnel goes about twenty meters and then it curves. Can’t see what’s beyond.

BELLE:

Moving the lander.

LANDER:

Okay. I’ll see you in an hour and a half.

BELLE:

Alex, you’re starting to fade.

I was, of course, in zero gravity, wearing grip shoes, but still half-adrift. I’ve never learned to walk properly with them. Experts say that a novice will be tempted to try to fly. In my case, at least, they’re wrong. I tend to be cautious. I don’t like being weightless, I get ill easily, and I always feel disoriented when it’s not entirely clear which way is down.

I came through the airlock wondering whether I’d find Teri Barber waiting for me with a bomb. But that was imagination run wild, and I knew it. Nevertheless, I breathed a sigh of relief when the inner hatch opened up, and I was looking down a long, empty corridor.

I had a generator with me, so that, if the need arose, I could introduce some power into the place. I also had a black marker, to ensure I didn’t get lost, and a scrambler. I’ve never used one of the things, but I knew if Barber turned up, I’d have no trouble blasting away.

The corridor was cut through rock. I turned on my wrist lamp and put it at its lowest setting, so it wasn’t much more than a soft glow. I kidded myself that I was less of a target that way. And I plunged ahead. Straight down the passageway for about twenty meters, then around a curve. Looking back on it now, I think continuing around that bend, convinced there was a psycho waiting for me somewhere in the place, was the gutsiest thing I’ve ever done.

The walls were uniformly gray, flinty, reflective. Strips that had once provided lighting ran along the overhead and the tunnel floor.

The tunnel curved and dipped and rose, so that you could seldom see more than twenty or thirty meters at a time. Ideal for an ambush. Don’t ask me why there were so many convolutions. It seemed to me that if you’re driving a passageway through rock, you go straight. But what do I know?

It would have been nice to be able to hear. But, of course, someone could drop a ton of bricks in that vacuum, and you’d never know. I trailed one palm against the walls, on the theory that any movement in the tunnel might create a vibration that I could detect. But that was wishful thinking, and I knew it.

I kept going. Past three or four doors that didn’t look promising so I didn’t try to open them. Past a couple of intersections, where, since the connecting tunnel seemed no more interesting than the one I was in, I stayed straight. Through two more hatches, both, I’m happy to report, open.

Eventually the tunnel forked. I marked it and went right.

I was beginning to relax a bit until I came around a curve, saw a light, and almost jumped out of the pressure suit. But it turned out to be a reflection. Off a sheet of metal. It turned out to be a door that had broken loose, probably from a cabinet.

Another hatch lay ahead. That one was closed, and it didn’t respond when I tried to open it. Usually if that happens, it’s because there’s air pressure on the other side.

In this case, it felt as if the problem was simply a matter of age. I wrestled with it for a minute then finally cut my way through with the laser.

The corridor continued on the other side. I passed a series of storage areas, filled with cabinets, cases, and crates. These were loaded with spare parts, bedding supplies, cable, hardware, electronic gear. When they left, the Kang had apparently not bothered to clear the station. It made me wonder whether the last ones out had realized nobody would be coming back.

Some stuff was afloat. Benches, chairs, fastenings, rock-hard fabrics, accompanied by a fine mist of particles and gunk that might have been anything, the remnants of towels or clothing or filters or food. Everything had drifted against one wall, which must have marked the far side of the station’s orbit.

I’d been in the passageway about three-quarters of an hour when I went through a final hatch and the stone walls ended. They were replaced by something that had been board or paneling at one time. It was rough, dry, hard, and all the color had drained from it. The floor was carpeted, but my grip shoes tore small pieces out of it.

I approached a set of double doors, one of which was open. I passed through and was gratified to see that I’d arrived in the station proper. Doors, rather than hatches, began to appear. They were on both sides of the corridor. None was easy to open, but I forced my way past several of them. One room housed a workout area, with a treadmill, some bars, and a few other pieces of exercise gear. Another contained an empty pool, its diving board still in place.

Two more rooms were filled with lockers and benches. Each had showers.

I came to a staircase and drifted up to the next level, which opened out into a lobby. There was a long, curving counter on one side and a series of shops opposite.

The shops were all empty shelves and tables. A wrench and a mallet were climbing one wall. They forget the tools and take the personal stuff. I’ve seen it before, and it’s as if people are being deliberately vindictive. Any of those shopkeepers could have achieved immortality by the simple expedient of leaving his name and his stock.

Several passageways opened off the area. There were more shops and more doors. I wandered into an apartment. A worktable was anchored to the deck. Two chairs floated against a wall. And a cushion. Everything was stiff and dry.

There were also shards of glass adrift. And an electronic instrument. A music player of some sort, I guessed.

I went next door, where it was different. The furniture was bolted to the floor.

Fabrics were old, but not ancient. The room wasn’t exactly the Golambere, but it was livable. Had, in fact, been lived in within the recent past. A (relatively) modern chest of drawers stood in a corner. The only objects adrift were a coffee cup, a pen, and a doily.

I walked over to the bureau and inspected it. There were four drawers, all empty.

I cut it loose from its anchors and looked on the back. A plate said MANUFACTURED BY CROSBY WORLDWIDE . In Standard characters.

I opened my channel to Chase. “I don’t guess you can hear me, love,” I said, “but I think we found it. This is where they stayed.”

I felt pretty good at that moment. End of the trail, at last.

Chase, of course, didn’t respond.

And now for the icing on the cake: All that remained was to hook up the generator, feed some power into the circuits, and watch my key work one of the locks.