estimate with great precision when the volume of lithium in the coils would drop too low to carry off the heat of the atmosphere. When that moment came, the bell’s internal temperature would rise catastrophically, baking the inhabitants black in minutes. “We’re doing fine. We’ll be inside the shuttle in five minutes,” she told the quiet men inside the sphere.
She had less than two minutes left when the squat shuttle became visible over the short horizon behind her. She knew she wasn’t going to make it, not at this dragging pace. She had to maneuver the bell over the ledge that partially blocked the shuttle’s hangar doors, close and seal the doors behind them, refrigerate and depressurize the hangar . . .
Sparta fell into a trance, but it passed so quickly no observer would have noticed. Within a millisecond her brain proposed and analyzed half a dozen possibilities and chose the least unlikely. She came out of her trance and acted upon her decision without hesitation–and without warning.
She spun violently, wrenching the sphere into position in front of her. Bracing herself on a tripod of her remaining legs, she used her fourth leg to shove the bell away from her. It rolled toward the open hangar like a massive soccer ball–
–but with a slowness that was exaggerated by Sparta’s slowed time-sense. She knew how little time they all had, but within that brief span there was leisure to do whatever could be done. She directed a tight beam of radio waves toward the waiting shuttle, instructing it to close the hangar doors and initiate emergency refrigeration and depressurization. She saw the bounding sphere’s own refrigeration coils burst and spew glowing lithium over the ground just as it sailed over the lip of the low ledge and smashed into the shuttle’s still-open maw. The doors were already beginning to close, slamming shut as an explosion of steam spewed out of the hangar–the reaction product of emergency coolant cascading from the shuttle’s tanks into the hot, dry atmosphere.
The shuttle continued to vent high-pressure steam for half a minute after the hangar doors sealed themselves. Sparta studied the scene with the senses remaining to her. Sight could tell her little, and radar bounced off the curved metal skin of the blunt cone; while she had radio contact with the shuttle’s robot systems, she had none with the men inside the bell. Sonar was her only good source of information, and she listened carefully to the bangings and hissings, the whistles and pump-throbbings that would tell her whether any of the shuttle’s vital systems had been ruptured, whether the men inside the bell were alive and conscious and able to release themselves from their cramped prison. . . .
Finally she heard the unmistakable sound of the pressure bell’s hatch opening.
“Shuttle, this is Rover Two. Put me on commlink, please.”
“Done,” the shuttle’s robot voice replied.
“Yoshi, can you hear me?”
“Mr. Yoshimitsu is momentarily indisposed,” replied a gruff voice, unmistakable by its British accent; Professor Forster was still firmly in charge–of himself, if not of events. “You may be interested to learn that all of us have survived without serious injury.”
“Glad to hear it, Professor. Now would you and your companions clear the hangar so that I can come aboard– before another earthquake does me in?”
“We’ll see to it.”
When the hatch of her rover opened into the steaming, repressurized hold of the shuttle, Sparta found the kindly-sad face of Albers Merck peering down at her. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she said, hoisting herself through the narrow hatchway with the aid of his helping hand. Standing next to himon the catwalk, she studied his mournful face and noted the dried blood in his hair and the purple bruise along one cheekbone. “Is there more?”
“Besides this?” He touched long fingers to his scalp and cheek. “Some very
She had less than two minutes left when the squat shuttle became visible over the short horizon behind her. She knew she wasn’t going to make it, not at this dragging pace. She had to maneuver the bell over the ledge that partially blocked the shuttle’s hangar doors, close and seal the doors behind them, refrigerate and depressurize the hangar . . .
Sparta fell into a trance, but it passed so quickly no observer would have noticed. Within a millisecond her brain proposed and analyzed half a dozen possibilities and chose the least unlikely. She came out of her trance and acted upon her decision without hesitation–and without warning.
She spun violently, wrenching the sphere into position in front of her. Bracing herself on a tripod of her remaining legs, she used her fourth leg to shove the bell away from her. It rolled toward the open hangar like a massive soccer ball–
–but with a slowness that was exaggerated by Sparta’s slowed time-sense. She knew how little time they all had, but within that brief span there was leisure to do whatever could be done. She directed a tight beam of radio waves toward the waiting shuttle, instructing it to close the hangar doors and initiate emergency refrigeration and depressurization. She saw the bounding sphere’s own refrigeration coils burst and spew glowing lithium over the ground just as it sailed over the lip of the low ledge and smashed into the shuttle’s still-open maw. The doors were already beginning to close, slamming shut as an explosion of steam spewed out of the hangar–the reaction product of emergency coolant cascading from the shuttle’s tanks into the hot, dry atmosphere.
The shuttle continued to vent high-pressure steam for half a minute after the hangar doors sealed themselves. Sparta studied the scene with the senses remaining to her. Sight could tell her little, and radar bounced off the curved metal skin of the blunt cone; while she had radio contact with the shuttle’s robot systems, she had none with the men inside the bell. Sonar was her only good source of information, and she listened carefully to the bangings and hissings, the whistles and pump-throbbings that would tell her whether any of the shuttle’s vital systems had been ruptured, whether the men inside the bell were alive and conscious and able to release themselves from their cramped prison. . . .
Finally she heard the unmistakable sound of the pressure bell’s hatch opening.
“Shuttle, this is Rover Two. Put me on commlink, please.”
“Done,” the shuttle’s robot voice replied.
“Yoshi, can you hear me?”
“Mr. Yoshimitsu is momentarily indisposed,” replied a gruff voice, unmistakable by its British accent; Professor Forster was still firmly in charge–of himself, if not of events. “You may be interested to learn that all of us have survived without serious injury.”
“Glad to hear it, Professor. Now would you and your companions clear the hangar so that I can come aboard– before another earthquake does me in?”
“We’ll see to it.”
When the hatch of her rover opened into the steaming, repressurized hold of the shuttle, Sparta found the kindly-sad face of Albers Merck peering down at her. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she said, hoisting herself through the narrow hatchway with the aid of his helping hand. Standing next to himon the catwalk, she studied his mournful face and noted the dried blood in his hair and the purple bruise along one cheekbone. “Is there more?”
“Besides this?” He touched long fingers to his scalp and cheek. “Some very
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