DESTINATION—DEATH-2
642 Words
HE SLID HIS HANDS OVER the control panel, adjusting the studs and levers with a delicate familiarity, striving to bring another ounce of power from the single rocket-bank that still functioned. But there was only the uneven beat of the rockets vibrating the floor as they had done for three days now, and no adjustment of the controls could make them function better.
Bart Caxton sat again, fumbled a cigarette from his pocket, then dropped it to the floor. His face was white beneath its tan, and there was a haunted desperation in the tightness of his bulky body.
“How long will it take?” he asked. “Will we make it back to Earth before—” His voice thickened. “—before we smother to death?”
Tom Headley shrugged. “It’ll be tight,” he said slowly. “We’ll be on half oxygen-rations the full trip back. But it can be done; I went three months on half-rations once—and then got drunk on Earth’s air for two days after I landed.”
“To hell with you and your fancy trips!” The madness was building again in Caxton’s mind. “You’ve been everywhere—but you ain’t been here; you don’t know what Uranus is like, nobody does.”
He lunged to his feet, pressed close to the port. His breath clouded the quartzite pane, and he polished the glass impatiently.
“Look at that,” he said thinly. “That’s the place we were going to explore; that’s the place where it is so cold and the pressure so great, air collapses and can’t be breathed. We were going to do what the early explorers failed to do; try to find life and minerals. They failed because their space suits could not stand the cold. Now we’ll be marooned there because a damned meteor busted our stern rockets all to hell!”
“Don’t blame me for that,” Headley said, and instantly regretted the words.
“Okay!” Caxton spun back to his seat. “I let the force-screen die for a couple of hours while I slept. But don’t think I’m taking the blame for the whole mess, even at that. This was your screwy idea.”
Headley nodded. “If we succeed, our reputations will be big enough to gain us backing for almost anything.” He grinned, and some of the fear was gone from his mind. “Hell, what if we are cooped up here for a few days? I’ll fix the rockets, we’ll do a bit of exploring, and then high-tail it back for more oxygen. We’ll live in vac-suits and save our air; and the suits hold enough rations to last us for three months.”
“And if the rockets aren’t fixed?”
Tom Headley forced the thought from his mind. “They’ll be fixed,” he said quietly.
Bart Caxton slumped into a sullen silence, his slitted eyes watching the profile of his companion. Slowly, cunning crept into his face, and his right hand slid along his thigh toward one belt-gun.
“I wouldn’t,” Headley said without moving. “You can’t fix the ship, and help won’t be sent for us for at least three months. A man couldn’t live that long, on the oxygen we have left, I don’t believe.”
“I might make the oxygen last for me until I got back to a regular traffic lane.”
Headley swung about, and anger paled his face. “Damn it, Caxton,” he said brittlely, “we’ll get out of this! Probably, because of the pressure and cold on the planet, we’ll find frozen air which can be thawed out; we’ll look for it along with the kronalium.” He watched the stillness of his partner’s hand. “Murder won’t solve anything!” he finished softly.
Bart Caxton nodded slowly. “Sorry, Headley,” he said. “It’s just that I’ve never been in a jam like this before.”
Tom Headley grinned. “We’ll see it through—together,” he said.
“Okay!” Caxton’s tone was sullenly agreeable, but small fires of cunning still swirled in his eyes.
“Get ready for a shock-landing,” Headley said relievedly, reached for the controls.
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- Writer
