Джек Макдевитт - Chindi

George had hoped, when they’d first discovered it, that they’d be able to engage its crew in a dialogue. Hello, we’re from Earth. Where are you folks from?

“How are you doing, Wolfie?” Hutch had thought he was someone’s idea, somewhere, of the ruler of the universe. Tor gazed at the image for several minutes. It did look rational. And serene. One might even say it possessed a touch of majesty.

If anything is made in His image, it should reflect reason. Anatomical design seems hardly relevant.

“I never believed in You,” he said. “Still don’t.” He switched off the light. “Good-bye, Wolfie. I won’t be along this way again.”

Its eyes seemed to have become visible.

He backed toward the door. “If you could see your way clear to help, though, I’d be grateful.”

HE TOPPED OFF his tanks, probably for the last time, and set them aside. The cell was near exhaustion. Best course now, if he wanted to drag things out, was to stay in the dome until the lights went off. Figuratively, of course, since everything that could be turned off was off. But he should wait it out here until life support shut down and the air started to go bad. Then switch to the tanks.

That was what he should do. It might be easier to end it. But he did not believe he could bring himself to deactivate the suit.

He was still relatively young, and he loved the sunlight. He had a sudden vision of the Memphis pulling up alongside and finding him dead. Of Hutch in tears, inconsolable, clasping him to her breast. Regretting the lost time they might have had together.

Odd. There was a degree of satisfaction in that.

Hutch continued to speak to him, her voice carried by the relay. He knew it was hard on her. But it would have been hard even if he’d been a stranger. It wasn’t easy standing around watching someone die.

Well, whatever happened from here on, he wasn’t going to turn out his own lights. You wouldn’t find Vinderwahl pulling the plug. No, ma’am.

“Tor.” Her voice again. She sounded far away now. “We have an idea that might work. Better than the other one. Hang on.”

Another idea. He hoped they weren’t trying to raise the chindi’s chief engineer.

Ten minutes later, life support failed. Fans stopped. The humming in the walls stopped. He turned on a lamp and was surprised to see that it still worked. It was dim, but it worked. No point in conserving. He left it on and sat quietly until the air in the dome started feeling heavy, until it reminded him of his washroom adventure. And then he tugged on the e-suit, connected his tanks, and activated the energy field.

He turned the lamp off and went back up through the exit hatch.

AT ABOUT THE time power was shutting down in Tor’s pocket dome, the McCarver and the Longworth reported they were on the way, and bringing lots of cable and connectors. Bill began broadcasting so they’d have no trouble finding the Memphis when they came out of the sack.

For Alyx, it was becoming unbearably exciting. When Hutch excused herself because she had to start preparing Dogbone for the operation, she volunteered to go along.

“You sure?” asked Hutch, while Nick suggested it was dangerous.

Was she sure? Alyx was beginning to feel like a veteran. She strolled down to the cargo bay, pulled on her e-suit and air tanks without help, and activated the Flickinger field. Hutch wore a go-pack. She’d made up three loops of cable, exhausting all that they had left. She tied two of them together and gave the third to Alyx, who pulled it over her shoulder. They went into the airlock (Alyx was still limping a bit, but this was no time to give in to minor injuries) and looked across at Dogbone, which was almost close enough to touch. It was immense. A boulder more than three-quarters the size of the ship. “I don’t believe it,” she said. “We’re going to hustle that up to several thousand kilometers per second?”

“I hope so,” said Hutch, “But we’ll have help.”

If it looked far too massive to accelerate to any appreciable velocity, it was pretty small to walk around on. This wasn’t like going into the moonbase at 1107. Or even onto the chindi.

It struck her as a far more unnerving act, but she wasn’t scared, as she’d expected to be. Instead she had to damp down her elation. (Did she actually feel enthusiastic about sticking her neck out like this?) With luck, Bill would be taking pictures, and she could see them playing around the world. ALYX BALLINGER IN DARING RESCUE.

Lovely.

Hutch pushed herself gently out the door, crossed the void, descended smoothly onto Dogbone, turned, and waved. Easy as pie. The woman should consider a career in dancing.

Alyx waved back and followed. The gravity went away and she discovered that floating across to Dogbone came as easily as if she’d been born to it. She was tethered to Hutch, who smiled at her as she arrived, and patted her shoulder. Good show and all that. Alyx glowed in the warmth of her approval.

Bill had matched the tumble and rotation of the asteroid fairly closely so that the Memphis moved only slowly across the sky. That was good. Kept her from getting ill.

The stars rotated pretty quickly though. And there was no horizon. It was like standing on the edge of a piece of rock with a precipice all around and no bottom. The stars rolled up one side, scrambled themselves, and drifted back down the other.

“Don’t look at them,” Hutch warned. “Keep your eyes on the ground.”

Such as it was.

They strolled across Dogbone, examining the terrain. Hutch found what she wanted, a relatively smooth spot in the center of the long axis. “We’ll put the McCarver here,” she said. They wrapped three pieces of cable completely around the object, literally walking around it to do so. Alyx would have preferred to stay put and let Hutch circle the rock, but they were tethered, so she had to follow.

They cinched the cable to secure it. Hutch began looking at the rock, making faces, jabbing her finger, and making comments like “Yes, right here,” and “I think that’ll work.”

Hutch also spent a lot of time talking to Tor. She told him in detail what they planned to do, how they were moving as quickly as they could. She sent him the timetable, encouraged him, assured him that the situation now looked encouraging.

Sometimes she handed it off to Alyx, who was too accustomed to having an audience to be able to talk comfortably into a commlink with no indication there was even anybody listening. Nevertheless, she tried. “It’ll be good to have you back, Tor,” she said. And, “Hutch is confident we can pull this off.” And, “We’re planning a party in your honor.”

Henry Claymoor’s producer, a man named Easter, called over in the middle of everything, while they were connecting additional cable to the base units. He was delighted to find Alyx along on the mission. Would she consent to an interview?

Of course she would. Claymoor was a popular figure with a big audience. She’d watched him do his commentaries, Claymoor on the Middle East, Claymoor on why religious belief grew stronger as the evidence for a mechanical universe mounted, Claymoor on why we should discontinue the Methuselah Project, which promised a thousand-year life span.

His professional persona had always seemed a bit stodgy, and she’d have preferred an interviewer who was closer in spirit to the younger generation. But out in the boondocks, one took what was available.