“Okay, Pirx, now keep your eyes peeled!” he told himself. He raised the couch a little, so as to take in all three video screens at once, checked the sweeping phosphorescent radar beam, and waited. Though nothing showed on the radar screen, he distinctly heard a voice calling:
“A-7 Terraluna, A-7 Terraluna, sector III, course one hundred thirteen, PAL PATHFINDER calling. Request a reading. Over.”
“Oh crap, how am I ever going to hear my two JOs now?”
The buzzing in his earphones suddenly stopped. A second later a shadow fell across his face, from above, much as if a bat had landed on an overhanging lamp. It was the fly, which was crawling across the blister and exploring its interior. The blips were coming with greater frequency now, and it wasn’t long before he sighted the 80-meter-long aluminum cylinder, mounted with an observation spheroid, as it flew over him at a distance of roughly 400 meters, possibly more, and gradually overtook him.
“PAL PATHFINDER to A-7 Terraluna, one-hundred-eighty-point-fourteen, one-hundred-six-point-six. Increasing linear deviation. Out.”
“Albatross-4 Aresterra calling PAL Central, PAL Central. Am coming down for refueling, sector II. Am coming down for refueling, sector II. Running on reserve supply. Over.”
“A-7 Terraluna, calling PAL PATHFINDER…”
The rest was lost in the buzzing. Then silence.
“Central to Albatross-4 Aresterra, refuel quadrant seven, Omega Central, refuel quadrant seven. Out.”
They would pick out this spot to rendezvous, thought Pirx, who was now swimming in his sweat-absorbent underwear. This way I won’t hear a thing.
The fly was describing frenetic circles on the computer’s console, as if hell-bent on catching up with its own shadow.
“Albatross-4 Aresterra, Albatross-4 Aresterra to PAL Central, approaching quadrant seven. Request radio guidance. Out.”
The radio static grew steadily fainter until it was drowned out by the buzzing. But not before he managed to catch the following message:
“JO-2 Terraluna, JO-2 Terraluna, calling AMU-27, AMU-27. Over.”
I wonder who he’s calling? Pirx mused, and he nearly jumped out of his straps.
“AMU—” he wanted to say, but not a sound could he emit from his hoarse throat. His earphones were buzzing. The fly. He closed his eyes.
“AMU-27 to JO-2 Terraluna, position quadrant four, sector PAL, am turning on navigation lights. Over.”
He switched on his navigation lights—two red ones at the side, two green ones on the nose, a blue one aft—and waited. Not a sound except for the fly.
“JO-2 ditto Terraluna, JO-2 Terraluna, calling…” Buzz-buzz, hum-hum…
Does he mean me? Pirx meditated in despair.
“AMU-27 to JO-2 ditto Terraluna, position quadrant four, perimeter sector PAL, all navigation lights on. Over.”
When both JO ships started transmitting at the same time, Pirx switched on the sequence selector, but there was too much interference. The buzzing fly, of course.
“I’ll hang myself!” That such a remedy was out of the question, due to the effects of weightlessness, never occurred to him.
Just then he sighted both ships on the radar screen. They were following him on parallel courses, spaced no more than nine kilometers apart, which was prohibited; as the pilot ship, it was up to him to make them adhere to the prescribed distance of fourteen kilometers. Just as he was checking the location of the blips on the radar screen, his old friend the fly landed on one of them. In a fit of anger he threw his navigation book at it, but it was deflected by the blister’s glass wall, and instead of sliding down, it bumped against the ceiling, where, because of the zero gravity, it fluttered aimlessly about in space. Seemingly unruffled, the fly strolled merrily on its way across the screen.
“AMU-27 Terraluna to JO-2 ditto JO-2. I have you in range. You are hard aboard. Switch over to parallel course with a correction of zero-point-zero one. Stand by on completion of maneuver. Out.”
Gradually the distance between the blips began to widen, all communication being temporarily interrupted by the fly as it embarked on a noisy little promenade around the computer’s microphone. Pirx had run out of things to throw; the flight book was still hovering overhead, lithely flapping its pages.
“PAL Central to AMU-27 Terraluna. Abandon outer quadrant, abandon outer quadrant, am assuming transsolar course. Over.”
He would try to screw things up! Pirx mentally fumed. What the hell do I care about the transsolar? Anyone knows that spaceships flying in group formation have priority. He began shouting in reply, and in this shouting of his there was vented all his impotent fury directed at the fly.
“AMU-27 Terraluna to PAL Central. Negative, am not abandoning outer quadrant, to hell with your transsolar, am flying in tri-formation. AMU-27, JO-2 ditto JO-2, squadron leader AMU-27 Terraluna. Out.”
I didn’t have to say “to hell with your transsolar,” he thought. That’ll cost me a few points for sure. Oh, they can all damn well go to hell! I’ll probably get docked for the fly, too.
It could only have happened to him. A fly! Wow, big deal! He could just see Smiga and Boerst busting a gut when they got wind of that crazy-assed fly. It was the first time since lift-off that he caught himself thinking of Boerst. But right now he didn’t have a moment to lose, because PAL was dropping farther and farther behind. They had been flying in formation for a good five minutes.
“AMU-27 to JO-2 ditto JO-2 Terraluna. It is now 2007 hours. Insertion parabolic orbit Terraluna to commence at 2010 hours. Course one hundred eleven…” And he read off the course data from the flight sheet, which, by a feat of acrobatics, he was able to retrieve from overhead. The two JO ships radioed their reply. PAL dropped out of sight, but he could still hear it signaling ever so faintly. Or was that the fly he was hearing?
For a moment the fly seemed to multiply, to be in two different places at once. Pirx rubbed his eyes. Just as he suspected: there was not one, but two of them. Where did the second one come from?!
Now I’m really a goner, he reflected with absolute calm, without a sign of any emotion. He even felt relieved somehow, knowing that it no longer mattered—either way he was sunk. His thoughts were diverted by a glance at the clock: it was 2010 hours, the time he himself had scheduled for the maneuver—and he had yet to even place his hands on the controls!
The daily grind of training exercises must have taken their toll because without a moment’s hesitation he grabbed both control sticks, pressed first the left and then the right one, and all the time kept his eye on the trajectometer. The engine responded with a hollow roar until it gradually tapered off to a whisper. Ouch! Something landed on his forehead, just under his visor, and remained stationary. The navigation book! It was blocking his vision, but he couldn’t brush it aside without taking his hands from the controls. His earphones were alive and astir as the two flies went about pursuing their love life on the computer. If only I had a gun on me, he thought, feeling the navigation book start to flatten his nose with the increase in acceleration. In desperation he began tossing his head around like a madman; he had to be able to see the trajectometer, for crying out loud! Suddenly the book crashed to the floor with a bang—and small wonder: at 4g it must have weighed nearly 3 kilos. He immediately decelerated to the level required by the maneuver, and at 2g put the levers on hold. He threw a glance at the mating flies. They were not the least bit fazed by the deceleration; on the contrary, they looked to be in seventh heaven. Hm, another eighty-three minutes to go. He checked the radarscope: the two JO ships were now trailing him at a distance of 70 kilometers. I must have jumped out in front that time I hit 4g, he thought. Oh well, no sweat.
From now until the end of the accelerated flight he would have a little time to kill. Two g was tolerable, despite his combined weight of 142 kilos. How many times had he spent up to a half hour in the centrifuge at 4g!
But then, it wasn’t exactly a picnic, either, what with your arms and legs weighing like iron, your head completely immobilized by the blinding light…
He verified the position of the two ships, and again thought of Boerst, picturing to himself how very much the movie star he must have looked. What a jaw that guy had! Not to mention that perfectly straight nose, those steely gray eyes… You can bet he didn’t have to rely on any cribsheet! But come to think of it, so far neither had he… Silence reigned in his earphones. Both flies were crawling along the blister’s surface such that their shadows grazed his face, and for the first time he cringed at the sight of them—at their tiny black paws, grotesquely magnified to look like suction disks, at their bodies glittering metallically in the glare of the lights…
“Dasher-8 Aresterra calling Triangle Terraluna, quadrant sixteen, course one-hundred-eleven-point-six. I have you on convergent course eleven minutes thirty-two seconds. Advise you to alter course. Over.”
Just my luck! Pirx mentally grumbled. Always some smart-ass trying to bugger up the works… Can’t he see I’m flying in formation?
“AMU-27 squadron leader Triangle Terraluna JO-2 ditto JO-2, calling Dasher-8 Aresterra. Negative, am flying in formation, proceed to carry out deviation maneuver. Out.”
While he was transmitting, he tried to locate the unwelcome intruder on the radar. There he was—less than 1,500 meters away!
“Dasher-8 to AMU-27 Terraluna, reporting malfunction in gravimeter system, commence immediate deviation maneuver, point of intersection forty-four zero eight, quadrant Luna four, perimeter zone. Over.”
“AMU-27 to Dasher-8 Aresterra, JO-2 ditto JO-2 Terraluna. Will commence deviation maneuver at 2039 hours. Yaw maneuver to commence at ditto hours behind squadron leader at optical range, northern deviation Luna sector one zero point-six. Am firing low-range thrusters. Over.”
Simultaneously he fired both lower yaw jets. The two JO ships responded at once, all three veered off course, and stars glided across the video screens. Dasher thanked him as he flew off to Luna Central, and in a surge of self-confidence, Pirx wished him a happy landing—a touch of class, seeing as the other ship was in distress. He followed his navigation lights for another thousand kilometers or so, then began guiding the two JO ships back onto their original course, which was easier said than done: going off course was one thing, finding your way back onto a parabola was another. Pirx found it next to impossible, what with a different acceleration, a computer so fast he couldn’t keep up with its coordinates, and the flies, which, if they weren’t crawling all over the computer, were playing tag on the radar screen. Where did they get all the energy? he wondered. It was a good twenty minutes before they were back on course.
Boerst probably has smooth sailing all the way, he thought. Him? Get into trouble? Not wonderboy Boerst.
He adjusted the automatic thrust terminator to achieve a zero acceleration after eighty-three minutes, as instructed, and then saw something that turned his sweat-absorbent underwear to ice.
Above the dashboard a white panel had come undamped. Not only that, but it was starting to work its way down, a millimeter at a time. It was probably loose to begin with, he reasoned, and all the vibrating during the recent yaw maneuvers—Pirx’s handling of the ship hadn’t exactly been gentle—had loosened the pressure clamps even more. With the acceleration still running at 1.7g, the panel kept inching its way down as if being pulled by an invisible thread. Finally it sprang loose altogether, slid down the outer side of the glass wall, and settled motionlessly on the deck, exposing a set of four gleaming copper high-voltage wires and fuses at the back.
Why all the panic? he told himself. An electrical panel has come loose—so, big deal. A ship can get along without a panel, can’t it?