Джек Макдевитт - Chindi

And always there would be Hutchins in the on-deck circle. A Philly. (Was that the way they would have said it? Was the female version a filly?) Much more realistic, that version of herself. Closer to the real Hutchins. Hutchins with a smile, vulnerable, looking a little at sea about what to do with the four bats. No, hardly wielding them. Supporting. Hanging on for dear life as she had always hung on when things got tough.

Nick looked at her encouragingly as they filed onto the bridge. We’ll get through it. She tried to look as if she was in command of her own emotions, and called up Bill. “Did we get the pictures?”

“First one coming on-screen now.”

It was blurred.

“I’ve had to do some enhancement.”

The chindi took shape. It seemed elongated, stretched to the rear, longer and sleeker than she remembered.

“There has been no reply from its command structure,” he added unnecessarily.

“Okay, Bill.”

“But I would call your attention to something.” He magnified the image, focusing on the area around the exit hatch.

There was a figure. Smeared, but unquestionably Tor! He was standing with his hand raised.

Waving.

Letting her know he’d been listening.

Someone squeezed her shoulder. Hutch fought back tears and eased into her chair. It was impossible to make out the face, to be sure even that it was a male. But she knew the yellow pullover shirt and the frumpy brown slacks.

Tor’s clock showed that he had seventeen minutes left. Plus six hours on the tanks.

Her mind kept returning to Tor tossing the dollar off the hull, to the batting circle, and to something else. The object that had drifted by while she was outside.

“Just a rock,” Bill said when she told him about it.

A comet waiting to be born.

Swing four bats so one seems lighter.

My God. There was a way. But she didn’t have enough time.

“What’s wrong, Hutch?” Nick was getting her a glass of water. Did she look that beaten down?

Greenwater.

Linear momentum is never lost during a hyperspace transit.

And the conversation with Tor.

“The momentum of the coin is preserved. It gets transferred to the Memphis. So the ship is traveling that much faster when it makes the jump back into standard space.”

“By a dollar.”

“Yes.”

“How much does that come to?”

She wiped her eyes and looked again at the clock. The power cell was all but dead. He was on his tanks. She calculated what they would have to do. What would be needed. It would take a half day. No less than that. No way it could be less.

She put herself in his place, riding into the night, waiting for the air to run out. She didn’t think she’d put up with that. More likely, she’d turn off the suit. Get it over with.

“We might have been able to do it,” she whispered to Bill. Her voice shook.

“Do what?” he asked gently.

She didn’t reply, but Bill knew what she was saying. He appeared beside her, wearing a dark jacket and tie.

“The Greenwater Effect,” she said.

He gazed steadily at her.

“I needed to think of it sooner.” The bridge was blurry. “We can’t get it done in six hours.”

“What’s the Greenwater Effect?” asked Nick.

But Bill was holding something back. “What?” she asked. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“He has more than six hours.”

“How do you mean?” He was wrong. She was sure of it. She’d done the calculation herself. Set the clock herself.

“Hutch, the chindi has been moving at a quarter light speed. Think about it.”

Nick was staring at her with a quizzical expression, asking her to explain.

Relativity! In terms of traveling through space, the superluminals are slow. Hutch wasn’t accustomed to thinking in relativistic terms.

“Yes,” she said. Time was running more slowly on the chindi. “I never thought—”

“That’s correct, Hutch.”

“How much time do we have?”

“The temporal differential at their velocity is roughly 3 percent.”

“Forty-five minutes a day. Three days to accelerate. So make that maybe twenty minutes each. He’d been out here…”

“It comes to about four more hours, Hutch.”

“You knew this all along.”

“Yes.”

“And you weren’t going to tell me.”

“I saw no reason to. It would only have caused additional pain.”

“All right. Tell me if this works.”

“Go ahead.”

The superluminals could get up to about.027c, roughly one-tenth what she needed to match the chindi. “If we found a rock ten times our mass, would the Longworth be able to haul it up to half delta-vee?”

“Yes. I see no reason why not. But not within the specified time.”

“It would take more than ten hours?”

“Yes.”

“How much more?”

“Well outside your parameters. He’d be dead before we could get there.”

“How about the media ship, the McCarver? It only carries a handful of people, right?”

“Its capacity is listed at five plus the captain.”

“How does its mass compare with ours?”

“It is 43 percent.”

Okay. Maybe there was a chance yet. “Could the Longworth get a rock that was ten times their mass up to half delta-vee? In ten hours?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Now add the McCarver’s mass to the rock. Can it still be done?”

She saw understanding dawn in Bill’s eyes. That was another effective trick he’d mastered. “I make it eight hours, fifteen minutes, with a fudge factor of about 6 percent.”

“Would somebody,” asked Alyx, “please tell me what we’re talking about?”

“A rescue, love,” said Hutch. “Bill, we need a channel open. Quick.”

“To whom?”

“To Tor.”

“You have it,” he said.

The light came on, but she thought a moment before saying anything. Don’t put any ideas into his head. “Tor,” she said, “we have an idea that might still work. Better than the other one. Hang on.”

SHE TALKED WITH Yurkiewicz on the Longworth and with Yuri Brownstein on the McCarver. No one could tell her why her idea wasn’t feasible, but when she’d finished explaining, Brownstein looked pained. “What happens to us when it’s over?” he asked. “We’re adrift with no way I can see of ever getting back to port.”

“Nobody’s going to leave anybody adrift. As soon as I know you’re willing to help, I’ll forward a message to the Academy. Let them know what else we need.”

Brownstein was a small, bullet-headed man who never smiled. “Hell, Hutch,” he said, “it’s a crazy idea, and we could be stuck like that for weeks. I’d like to top off my tanks first.” He meant scooping off some hydrogen from one of the Twins.

“We don’t have time,” she said. “What’s your fuel look like?”

“About 80 percent.”

“That’s enough. How about you, John?”

“A little less. Seventy-three. It should be sufficient. Although we’re probably going to end up adrift out there, too.”

Brownstein looked like a man whose pocket was being picked. “Damn it all, Hutch, we’re going to a lot of trouble for this guy. How’d he get stuck over there in the first place?”

“You don’t want to hear it, Yuri. Right now let’s concentrate on bailing him out. And we’ll be doing it under spectacular circumstances. You’ll both be heroes.”

Yurkiewicz’s gaze hardened. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

“It’s just the game for us,” said Brownstein. “UNN to the rescue.”

“What worries me,” said Yurkiewicz, “is that none of these engines are designed for the kind of strain we’re about to put on them. What happens if they blow?”

“Party’s over,” said Hutch. “But the Academy will accept liability for any damages.”