Chindi

There followed an uncomfortable hour while they waited for the McCarver. Too long. It was taking too long.

If everything worked, they were still going to have to go hunting for the chindi. And time was becoming desperately short.

Hutch took advantage of the delay to open a cha

“I don’t like him,” Brownstein said. He had an accent she couldn’t quite place. Eastern Europe, probably.

“As a favor,” Hutch persisted, turning on the old charm.

She was standing beneath the Longworth’s hull. It was an ungainly-looking craft, long and blocky, a series of boxes of different dimensions stuck together like a child’s puzzle. Symmetry seemed to be the only concession to aesthetics.

He gazed at her, and she knew he would make the accommodation. “Suppose something happens to one of them?”

“You’ve no liability. I have it in writing.”

After a long pause: “All right. I’ll do it for you.”

“Thanks, Captain.” She shifted tone. Old friends, just between us. “Was there a problem?”

“He forgot to ask. He started telling me he would come aboard and I would do so and so.”

“Yeah. Okay. I’ll have him make the request again.”

“It’s all right. You want him along, he comes.”

She also talked to Tor, told him the operation was on schedule, assured him everything looked pretty good. “We’re coming,” she said. “Just stay put.”

Stay put. She regretted the remark almost before she’d said it. But it was too late to call it back.

“THEY’RE HERE,” HUTCH told Tor as she watched lights move through the sky. The McCarver, the Mac, was little more than a yacht.

“Okay,” somebody said. “Let’s roll.”

The Mac went to reverse thrusters, aligned itself with the other two ships, and drifted between them to take her place on the asteroid. Unlike them, she touched her hull to the rock.

The McCarver was less than half the size of the Memphis. Dogbone was considerably bigger than she was.

The work crew tied her down.

Her main hatch opened while Hutch and Yurkiewicz were giving the web a final inspection. Brownstein appeared, waved, and descended to the surface. “Sorry I’m late,” he said.

Hutch shook hands and thanked him for his help. Meantime, lines were attached to the media ship, and she was secured to the asteroid.

Mogambo and his two companions appeared. He told Brownstein how happy he was to see him, how pleased to be able to ride along with him. (He appeared to be getting smarter.) He introduced his colleagues, Teri Hankata, from the Quraquat space station, and Antonio Silvestri, who’d been leading an inspection team that had been trying to find out why terraforming on that world had been going wrong. They were wearing go-packs, and carrying other equipment, which, with Brownstein’s permission, they stored in the McCarver.

They’d brought a pocket dome with them, a larger model than the one Tor had, which would be put to use while they camped out on the chindi. Mogambo also did what he could to reassure everyone. “I know all this is an inconvenience,” he said. “But we only want to take a quick look.”

“I hope so,” said Brownstein. “You’re aware we may be stranded alongside this thing for a while. In which case I won’t care much whether you’re with me or over there. But when I’m ready to leave, I’ll expect you to come back. Without any delay.”

“Of course.”

“I haven’t the luxury of being able to wait around. If you’re not on board when we’re ready to go, it’ll be sayonara.”

Mogambo wasn’t used to being talked to in that fashion, and he struggled visibly to keep everything amicable.

Hutch and the others in the party got a quick introduction to Henry Claymoor. Claymoor was one of those tall, self-important types, loaded with a kind of sticky charm, who had never learned to turn it off. Dark hair, dark eyes, brandy voice that seemed to lend significance to every detail of existence. He was a distant man working hard at being casual. Tendencies, she thought, that had been magnified by the rejuvenation treatments, which had fended off the debilities of aging without making him youthful. He seemed like one of those unfortunates who had never been young. Hutch couldn’t imagine him having a good time.

The McCarver lay flat on Dogbone’s surface. The work crews secured it by lashing cables around the central stem and over the Mac’s hull.

Hutch tried to help but it turned out the work team had practiced while en route. “Just stay clear, ma’am,” one of them told her.

And more quickly than she could have hoped, they were finishing up.

Hutch said good-bye to Alyx and Nick. “Been a pleasure,” she said. “See you at home.” She offered to get a volunteer from one of the other vessels to provide whatever assistance they might need.

They declined, and Hutch reminded them they’d be marooned on the Memphis indefinitely. Alyx said they’d be fine, could take care of themselves. And Nick looked delighted. Stranded with Alyx? A man could do worse.

The line crew a

As the volunteers retreated to their respective ships, all but one to the Longworth, Brownstein invited Hutch to sit with him on the bridge. They waited through a tense few minutes, exchanging comments on how they wouldn’t want to go through anything like this again, until the AI informed them they were ready to depart. The captain warned his passengers, then leaned over and shook Hutch’s hand. “Good luck,” he said.

The engines on the Memphis and the Longworth ignited. They began to move.

The McCarver remained quiet. For the early part of the voyage, she would be strictly cargo.

Hutch spoke to Tor over her link. “Under way,” she said.

PROCEEDING WITH DELIBERATION, the two superluminals dragged Dogbone out of orbit, turned in the direction of the chindi, and began to accelerate. Bill had predicted the cable would take the strain, but it was nevertheless uncomfortable to watch the net between the rock and the ships pull tight and begin to stretch.

Bill was relaying all significant data to the McCarver. Hutch was especially concerned about engine temperatures. The propulsion system was designed to run continually for about an hour maximum, which—under normal conditions—was more than sufficient to provide adequate power to the jump engines. On this excursion, because of the deadweight they were hauling, they were going to need more than two hours of non-stop acceleration to achieve that objective.

Brownstein provided coffee, and they sat talking, watching their velocity mount, watching the clock. Occasionally, Hutch talked to Tor, and to Alyx and Nick in the Memphis. And to Bill.

They passed.005c. Half of 1 percent of light-speed. Target velocity was.026c.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” said Brownstein.

From the Longworth, Yurkiewicz reported all in order. “Burning more fuel than I want to. But we’ve made some adjustments.”

Later, Claymoor appeared beside her in virtual. “Eventually, I’d like to do a show with you, Hutch,” he said. “But I’ll want to get some background first. Aren’t you the same woman who was caught on Deepsix last year? Got rescued by Gregory MacAllister?”

That wasn’t exactly the way it had happened, but he wasn’t interested in corrections. He asked where she’d grown up, how she’d become a pilot, why she’d become a pilot, whether she had kids, what she did in her spare time. What was her co

“He’s a passenger,” she said.

“Just a passenger?” He looked suspicious and disappointed. “No personal feeling for the man?”

“He’s a passenger. I’m responsible for all my passengers.”