“Unless you can think of any other things to try,” he said after an hour of experimenting with various settings of sails and the immobile keel, “I think we’re stuck. There aren’t any rescue boats out here. It looks like you’ll get your wish to ‘sail Jupiter’s seas forever.’ According to my calculations, Thorn won’t intersect a station’s track for at least a thousand years.”
“Well, Pascal,” Louella said in a surprisingly soft voice, “If we’re going to die, I can’t think of anybody I’d rather do it with than you, and no better place than on a racing boat.”
“I’m afraid that I can,” he replied too quickly and watched the gray nothingness of the infrared display as he contemplated his own death.
At least he’d be free of this damn headache, he thought.
Rams was puzzled as he approached the strangely warm object that had suddenly appeared. Primrose was now matched to the speed of the object. He carefully headed downwind and slowly closed the gap between them. Rams kept one hand on the winch controls as he maneuvered the ship closer and closer to the object, tightening and loosening the sail controls to creep forward.
At a few hundred meters the infrared image resolved into a strange double blob. The large upper blob was one or two hundred meters above Primrose. The smaller one was about the same distance below. A barely discernible thin line, apparently just a few degrees above the ambient temperature, connected the two blobs. He’d never seen anything so strange in all of the time he’d spent on Jupiter’s seas.
As he drew closer, the upper blob resolved itself into the familiar heat signature of a small craft, possibly a cargo barque or maybe a miner. Maybe the connecting line was its keel, he thought. But what was the blob at the bottom? It was far too large and irregular to be keel weights.
He pumped a little more ballast into Primrose’s tanks and sank lower. He wasn’t going to get any closer to the pair until he figured out what was going on. “Hate to mess up some science folks, wouldn’t we?” he remarked to Primrose.
The heat image resolved into two keel ribbons. They appeared to be tangled around some large shape that was below ambient temperature, as if it had come from deeper in the atmosphere. He flooded it with his sonar, watching as the display built up a ghostly image of the irregular shape.
On a hunch he pinged it with the docking sonar frequency and listened through the static for the reply: One, two, three pings came back, which indicated that he had made the lump ring. Either it was hollow, which made no sense, or it had a high metallic content. Somehow the other ship had been hit by a piece of rock brought up by the storm—a huge piece that could be worth a fortune.
He brought the ship back up until it was level with the other ship, carefully staying downwind to avoid smashing into her. With fine adjustments of the jib he allowed the other ship to come closer and closer until they almost kissed.
“Hello,” he yelled over the radio link, hoping that they were close enough to overcome the static. “This is the clipper Primrose, four days out of CS-15. Do you need assistance?”
Louella started at the sudden and unexpected sound of a strange human voice coming over the static of the radio. Pascal tried to sit upright and looked around. Since the accident he had slept in the helmsman’s seat, letting Louella have the more comfortable bunk where she could sleep. She’d relented after the second day and let him administer the painkiller. “Just make sure it isn’t a lethal dose,” she’d jokingly remarked. “I don’t want to miss the end of this race.”
“Nor I,” Pascal had replied slowly, and thought about what she had just said. He’d never considered that possibility. An “accidental” mistake in dosage would certainly be something to think about as the air grew closer.
To pass the time they’d talked about things that they never seemed to have time to discuss earlier. Except for the long trip out from Earth, when she was still pissed after their big argument and wouldn’t talk to him, the only time they’d had together was during the races, or while preparing for them. Under those circumstances it had been all business; winning the race, discussing the set of the sails, the movement of the currents and the wind, talking about the positions and strategies of their competition, and the endless details of reconciling her art of sailing with his science. After every race they went their separate ways, until the next race, the next challenge that threw them together.
“Always wanted to have a place on Chesapeake Bay,” Louella confided during one of the times they were both awake. Since the accident they had abandoned their five hours on, five hours off schedule. “Some little marina where I could teach kids to race. Maybe have a dinghy school of my own. You know, take a shot at producing a batch of Olympic champions.”
Pascal snorted at that: if he ever got out of this he wanted to live as far from the ocean as possible, maybe in Arizona or New Mexico. Someplace where wet clothing, must and mildew, and cold, sodden food were unheard of. Someplace where the damned footing was solid and the horizon always stayed level with your eyes. He yearned for some place that was dry, flat, and had no dangerous cliffs.
But neither could convince the other of the desirability of their dreams, even though the chances of achieving them were impossible. There was only a day or two left of the life support system. The water had gone the day before. Both knew that they were doomed. They would become a Jovian version of the Flying Dutchman.
“I repeat, do … **crackle**… hisssss … need assistance?” the voice rattled from the speaker. Pascal fumbled around under the instrument panel and found the microphone.
“I hear you loud and clear,” he yelled. “Thank God you found us. I mean, yes, yes we need help badly!”
“Are… **crackle** pop**… under sail?” the voice said with what sounded like a tone of impatience.
“No,” Pascal said in response. “We cannot maneuver. We are without ballast and cannot control our craft.”
“**Pop… ** … wish to…” came the hissing reply. “Do you… **** … rescued?”
“Of course we do, you fucking idiot!” Louella screamed into the microphone. “Of course we want to be rescued!” Tears of happiness were steaming down her face even as she cursed the stupidity of the question.
“Tell him to give us instructions,” Pascal said, wiping the moisture from his own face with one hand while he gently wiped at the tears on Louella’s with the other as they hugged in the cramped cockpit.
Rams tried to understand what the woman was saying about the condition of their boat. The radio handled low frequencies better than high, and that made her voice difficult to understand. If only she’d stop and let the other guy talk!
****… Can’t maneuver…,” she told him. “No food, no water,… life support gone. We’re afraid … **crackle**… ship… complete loss … abandon … “pop”…
Rams wondered what sort of idiots they were to talk about abandoning their ship. Didn’t they know the wealth that they’d discovered? Didn’t they realize how valuable their own ship was? “I’ll take her under tow if you want.”
“Understand. *’** … need medical …**tention.”
“All right. I will bring you aboard and secure your ship. By the way,” he said slyly, “will you give me salvage rights if I do so?”
It took him several repeats before he could make them understand just what he was asking. He made sure that he had their request to abandon ship on file. It had to be clear that it was their idea, not a threat by him. He really had no choice but to help them—that was how you survived on Jupiter.
Rams struggled into the heavy pressure suit and, once inside, hooked its safety line to the ring near the hatch. Attached to his belt were lengths of high tensile strength line. He could use them to string the two craft together. Checking to make certain that everything was ready, he opened the hatch and stepped directly out into the howling winds of Jupiter.
Rams had brought the far larger Primrose to within fifty meters of the smaller ship’s hull, letting the venturi effect of the winds in the narrow channel hold them close.
His exterior lights just barely illuminated the upper surface of the other ship. Rams watched as two figures struggled awkwardly out of the hatch and clamped their lines onto the deck rings.
The two ships bucked and lurched, the gap between them widening and closing. The decks rose and sank relative to each other as they bobbed, side by side. Rams prayed that he’d set the ship’s sails properly to hold station with the drifting ship. He clicked his suit light four times to attract their attention.
When he got a wave of acknowledgement, he readied one of the lines, whirling the pulley at its end over his head in ever widening circles before releasing it upwind. The pulley sailed out and too quickly down, drawn by the higher acceleration of Jupiter’s gravity. It clanked onto the near side of Thorn’s hull and slipped away.
Rams retrieved the line and tried again, and a third time. On the fourth toss, the pulley finally cleared the deck. The line whipped around to catch against the two figures, making the smaller of them stagger back from the impact.
The other figure secured the pulley to their deck with one arm and waited. Rams carefully pulled the light line back as he paid out a heavier one that was tied to its end. It took nearly half an hour before he had a slack double line rigged between the two rocking and bobbing craft. The line moved up and down, tightening and then loosening as the two ships lurched in the wind. He wrapped the line around a deck winch and locked it in place.
Finally, Rams attached a cradle of ropes and clamps he had rigged to a hook on the heavier line. Slowly he winched the cradle to the other ship, hoping that they would use it properly. The last thing he wanted was for someone to take a plunge.
“You first,” Pascal said nervously as he caught hold of the rig. “Let me hook you up.”
“No fucking way. I’m the captain of this boat and I leave last,” Louella replied. “Turn around so I can hook the clamps to your suit.”
“Yeah, and how are you going to hook yourself up with a broken arm?” he shot back. “Now turn around. For once, don’t be such a bitch!”
“Why, Pascal,” she said in surprise. “That sounds like you actually care about me.”
“Well, it looks like we’ll have the Whitbread next year after all,” he said as he checked the rig’s fastenings a second time to make certain they were secure. “I wouldn’t want to be with anyone else in that race.”
“It’s a date, lover,” said Louella.
Once he saw that Louella had been dipped, jerked, and lurched to the other ship, Pascal had to face what would happen next. In a few moments the rig would return and he would have to hook himself to it so that his rescuer could winch him across the bottomless chasm of Jupiter’s atmosphere. Instead of a nice solid deck beneath his feet there would be nothing but black nothingness that went down forever, down into the cold heart of this cruel planet.
He’d be suspended by only a few thin filaments of braided cord and his trust in the skill of some unknown captain. For long minutes he would be swinging above the great void, helpless as the strong fingers of Jupiter drew him down, down, down.
He doubted that he really had the nerve. Could he really trust himself to that hopelessly thin cable? And even if he did, where would he then find the courage to step out, off the solid deck, and place himself at risk?
The moment of decision had come. The rig was swinging out of the bright lights of the other ship and coming toward him. His stomach hurt. He was either going to die on this crippled ship or drop to a certain death. He felt like crying, he was so afraid.