Engines Of God

George was drawing closer to her. Periodically, while he joked about the lack of privacy or the advantages of celibacy ("Keeps the mind clear"), Hutch detected passion in his eyes. Her own emotions churned. She loved being near him, but it was frustrating that they could be alone only if they took walks together. Which was to say, advertised that there was something going on.

Maggie made no secret of her reservations regarding male intellectual capacities. "They're okay when they're alone," she might say, "but put a woman in the room and their 1Q drops thirty points." She masked these comments as light banter, but everyone suspected there was a wound that had not healed. No one took offense.

At 1106 GMT, Thursday, March 31, precisely one week after the collision, the alarm sounded. Hutch unbuckled, but Carson pushed her back. "Relax. I've got it." And he floated forward to the instrument panel.

No one said anything. They could hear him up there, could hear the play of electronics. "Air pressure's down," he said. "We're not getting much."

"Let's go take a look," said Hutch.

The line that co

"I would have thought," said Carson, "that everything in a shuttle bay would be impervious to the cold."

"There are limits," Hutch told him. "This place isn't supposed to be constantly frozen." The decks, and the equipment, were covered with frost. When she flashed her light around, the beam filled with fine white particles. Hutch examined the line. "We've got a couple of spares. We'll replace it."

It was now -77 °C.

They got up a bridge game that night, taking turns sitting out. It lasted longer than usual, and when it was over no one wanted to sleep.

Hutch had one of the divans. It was more comfortable than the web-chair up front, but she still had to tie herself down to avoid floating off.

"Eventually," George said, "we'll all sit around at the Mogambo and reminisce about this." He didn't explain what the Mogambo was.

"I hope so," she said. The lights were out.

"Wait and see," he said. "The day will come when you'd do anything to be able to come back here and relive this night."

The remark surprised her. It was out of character. "I don't think so," she said. She thought he wanted to say more, but was leaving her to fill in the blanks. Their third occupant was Maggie. No dummy she: Hutch knew she would have liked to shrink into her blankets. Damn. "Goodnight, George," she said, and whispered, too low for anyone to hear, "maybe."

The line to the pumps gave way again the following morning just as she was getting up. Carson was in the cockpit waiting for her.

They went out into the bay, carrying lamps, and removed the line a second time, with a view to putting in another replacement. While they were working on it, Hutch became uneasy. "Something else is wrong," she said.

"What?" asked Carson.

It took a minute. "Power's off."

The electronic murmur that normally filled the starship was gone.

"Hey." George's voice came from the shuttle. "We got red lights in here."

"On my way," said Hutch. And to Carson: "That's it for the pumps. We'll have to switch to internal air."

"It's too soon," said Carson.

"I know."

"Okay," said Maggie. "As things stand now, we will use up the last of the shuttle's air April eighth. Give or take a few hours. The breathers will carry us over to the ninth. The cavalry gets here two days later."

At best.

Ship's communications had switched over to a backup power cell. Beyond that, the vessel was dead.

"Wink's tanks are full," said George.

Hutch nodded. "That doesn't help us without a working pump."

George, perhaps for the first time, saw things going terribly wrong. He looked pale. "Can we go manual?"

She shook her head.

"I'll tell you one thing," said Janet. "If we're not going to survive this, I don't want to die in here. Why don't we launch, and get away from this mausoleum?"

"We could," said Hutch. "But if help comes, Wink will be a lot easier to find than the shuttle."

She too looked rattled.

George's eyes locked on Hutch. "There's got to be a way."

"How about Kosmik?" said Maggie. "Quraqua's closer than Nok."

Hutch pulled her knees up under her chin. "I requested help from them ten minutes after we got the response from Nok. They should have seen the original distress calls. And they've probably also seen Nok's reply. Assuming best outcome, that they realized we were in trouble, that a ship was available, and that they dispatched it immediately after Nok backed off, they will probably arrive a little earlier than the Ashley Tee. But not by much. Travel time on the jump is eight days. They'll need another day to find us after they get here. At least."

"We'd still be dead," said George.

Maggie had been drawing arcane symbols on her lightpad. "I'm not anxious to suggest anything radical." She pronounced each syllable precisely, as if she were reading lines. "But we have a total of forty days of air to divide any way we please."

Carson's eyes came into sudden, sharp focus.

"I'm not recommending anything," she said again. "But it's something to think about."

Four people could last ten days. There would be a chance.

She must have read Hutch's expression. "I'm sorry. We don't seem to be having any luck this time out," she said.

"There's a possibility we haven't tried yet," said Carson. The Monument-Makers. We know their address. Maybe we haven't been asking the right people for help."

The ante

They looked out across the same schizoid sky that one found all along the edge of the Orion Arm: a tapestry of stars to port, and a black river to starboard. Across the river,they could see the glow of the far shore.

"Ready?"

Carson's voice shook her out of her reverie. She activated the transmitter.

Carson nodded. "Okay. I hear it." Above them, light from the open shuttle bay hatch illuminated the underside of the A ring.

She tucked her equipment into a pouch. Carson had straightened, and stood watching the constellations rise and set around the curve of the ship. Silhouetted against the moving stars, he should have been a heroic figure. But he wore a white pullover with a little sail on the breast pocket, and a pair of fatigues. Despite his surroundings, he looked like a man out for a stroll.

Through the entire operation, her mind was on Maggie's arithmetic. Four people might make it.

That evening, Hutch sat up front watching the communication lamps on the main console. Distracted, discouraged, frightened, she felt overwhelmed, and was unaware she wasn't alone until she smelled coffee beside her.

Maggie.

"You okay?" Maggie's voice was controlled. Deliberately calm.

"I've been better."

"Me, too." She had something to say, but Hutch knew she'd get around to it in her own good time.

They stared out into the dark bay. "The Monument-Makers know about us by now. If they exist." Maggie held her cup to her lips.