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发信人: by (春天的小懒虫), 信区: SFworld
标  题: 2010(18)
发信站: 哈工大紫丁香 (Wed Oct  6 14:40:17 1999), 转信

                            18
                        Salvage

The  moment  that  the  outer  hatch  had  closed behind them,
there  had  been  a  subtle  reversal  of roles. Curnow was at
home  now,  while  Brailovsky  was out of his element, feeling
ill  at  ease  m  the  labyrinth  of pitch-black corridors and
tunnels  that  was  Discovery's  interior. In theory, Max knew
his  way  round  the  ship,  but that knowledge was based only
on  a  study  of  its  design  drawings.  Curnow, on the other
hand,  had  spent  months  working  in  Discovery's  still  un-
completed identical twin; he could, quite literally, find his
way around blindfolded.
  Progress  was  made  difficult because that part of the ship
was  designed  for  zero  gee;  now the uncontrolled spin pro-
vided  an  artificial  gravity,  which,  slight though it was,
always   seemed   to   be  in  the  most  inconvenient  direc-
tion.
  `First  thing  we've  got  to  do,'  muttered  Curnow,  after
sliding  several  metres  down a corridor before he could grab
a  handhold,  `is  to  stop  this damned spin. And we can't do
that  until  we  have  power.  I  only  hope  that Dave Bowman
safeguarded all systems before he abandoned ship.'
  `Are  you  sure  he  did  abandon  the  ship?  He  may  have
intended to come back.'
  `You  may  be  right;  I don't suppose we'll ever know. If he
even knew himself.'
  They  had  now  entered  the  Pod  Bay  - Discovery's `space
garage',  which  normally  contained  three  of  the spherical
one-man  modules  used  for  activities outside the ship. Only
Pod  Number  3  remained;  Number  1  had  been  lost  in  the
mysterious accident that had killed Frank Poole - and
Number 2 was with Dave Bowman, wherever he might be.
  The Pod Bay also contained two spacesuits, looking
uncomfortably like decapitated corpses as they hung helmet-
less in their racks. It needed very little effort of the imagina-
tion - and Brailovsky's was now working overtime - to fill
them with a whole menagerie of sinister occupants.
  It was unfortunate, but not altogether surprising, that
Curnow's sometimes irresponsible sense of humour got the
better of him at this very moment.
  `Max,' he said, in a tone of deadly seriousness, `whatever
happens - please don't go chasing off after the ship's cat.'
  For a few milliseconds, Brailovsky was thrown off guard;
he almost answered: `I do wish you hadn't said that,
Walter', but checked himself in time. That would have
been too damning an admission of weakness; instead he
replied, `I'd like to meet the idiot who put that movie in
our library.'
  `Katerina probably did it, to test everyone's psycholo-
gical balance. Anyway, you laughed your head off when we
screened it last week.'
  Brailovsky was silent; Curnow's remark was perfectly
true. But that had been back in the familiar warmth and
light of Leonov, among his friends - not in a pitch-black,
freezing derelict, haunted by ghosts. No matter how rational
one was, it was all too easy to imagine some implacable
alien beast prowling these corridors, seeking whom it
might devour.
  It's all your fault, Grandma (may the Siberian tundra lie
lightly on your beloved bones) - I wish you hadn't filled my
mind with so many of those gruesome legends. If I close my
eyes, I can still see the hut of the Baba Yaga, standing in that
forest clearing on its scrawny chicken legs...
  Enough of this nonsense. I'm a brilliant young engineer
faced with the biggest technical challenge of his life, and 1
mustn't let my American friend know that I'm sometimes a
frightened little boy...
  The noises did not help. There were too many of them,
though they were so faint that only an experienced astro-
naut would have detected them against the sounds of his
own suit. But to Max Brailovsky, accustomed to working
in an environment of utter silence, they were distinctly
unnerving, even though he knew that the occasional crack-
lings and creakings were almost certainly caused by thermal
expansion as the ship turned like a roast on a spit. Feeble
though the sun was out here, there was still an appreciable
temperature change between light and shade.
  Even his familiar spacesuit felt wrong, now that there was
pressure outside as well as in. All the forces acting on its
joints were subtly altered, and he could no longer judge his
movements accurately. I'm a beginner, starting my training
all over again, he told himself angrily. Time to break the
mood by some decisive action...
  `Walter - I'd like to test the atmosphere.'
  `Pressure's okay; temperature - phew - it's one hundred
five below zero.'
  `A nice bracing Russian winter. Anyway, the air in my
suit will keep out the worst of the cold.'
  `Well, go ahead. But let me shine my light on your face,
so I can see if you start to turn blue. And keep talking.'
  Brailovsky unsealed his visor and swung the faceplate
upward. He flinched momentarily as icy fingers seemed to
caress his cheeks, then took a cautious sniff, followed by a
deeper breath.
  `Chilly - but my lungs aren't freezing. There's a funny
smell, though. Stale, rotten - as if something's - oh no!'
Looking suddenly pale, Brailovsky quickly snapped the
faceplate shut.
  `What's the trouble, Max?' Curnow asked with sudden
and now perfectly genuine anxiety. Brailovsky did not
reply; he looked as if he was still trying to regain control of
himself. Indeed, he seemed in real danger of that always
horrible and sometimes fatal disaster - vomiting in a
spacesuit.
  There was a long silence; then Curnow said reassuringly:
`I get it. But I'm sure you're wrong. We know that Poole
was lost in space. Bowman reported that he... ejected the
others after they died in hibernation - and we can be sure
that he did. There can't be anyone here. Besides, it's so cold.'
He almost added `like a morgue' but checked himself in
time.
  `But suppose,' whispered Brailovsky, `just suppose
Bowman managed to get back to the ship - and died here.'
  There was an even longer silence before Curnow deliber-
ately and slowly opened his own faceplate. He winced as the
freezing air bit into his lungs, then wrinkled his nose in
disgust.
  `I see what you mean. But you're letting your imagina-
tion run away with you. I'll bet you ten to one that smell
comes from the galley. Probably some meat went bad,
before the ship froze up. And Bowman must have been too
busy to be a good housekeeper. I've known bachelor apart-
ments that smelled as bad as this.'
  `Maybe you're right. I hope you are.'
  `Of course 1 am. And even if I'm not - dammit, what
difference does it make? We've got a job to do, Max. If Dave
Bowman's still here, that's not our department - is it,
Katerina,'
  There was no reply from the Surgeon-Commander; they
had gone too far inside the ship for radio to penetrate. They
were indeed on their own, but Max's spirits were rapidly
reviving. It was a privilege, he decided, to work with
Walter. The American engineer sometimes appeared soft
and easygoing. But he was totally competent - and, when
necessary, as hard as nails.
  Together,  they  would  bring Discovery back to life; and,
perhaps, back to Earth.

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:-( Helix@KALI.COM.CN                                                208CE12C
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