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“What did he want?” Patrick asked.

“More radio contact, and could you rig one of the TV cameras so they could observe us for general broadcast.”

“Negative. No circuses for the folks back home, not just now. Kuznekov, stay where you are, I'm coming out to see for myself.”

“Right, Patrick. And bring the oxyacetylene torch with you and the tool pack. I think I know how to cut that bolt.”

“Roger. Here I come.”

Patrick clipped the tools and the torch behind him and drew himself through the open doorway, then snapped a clip on the handhold outside. After that, carefully, he pulled all of the floating loops of his umbilicals through the doorway until they hung free, writhing slowly in space. Only then did he unclip and work his way back along the length of Prometheus, stopping every few feet to check the trailing umbilicals to be sure they were not getting tangled or caught. The bulky tool pack and torch on his back were weightless in free fall. When he had almost reached the end of the umbilicals Kuznekov reached back and seized his hand, pulling him the rest of the way.

“There,” Kuznekov said. “You will see our problem.”

A circle of light appeared, gliding first across the smooth surface of the metal then over the nuclear motor and the angular forms of the pistons that should have pushed the two spaceships apart. The nearest ones were extended all the way, a gap showing between their ends and the base of Prometheus. But there, on the far side, was a jumble of twisted metal, half extended pistons and the intact form of a thick steel rod. Kuznekov kept the light on it.

“Exploding bolt,” he said. “Unexploded. An American bolt I am unhappy to report.”

“And those supports and pistons are Soviet,” Patrick said in a weary voice. “The interface between the two techniques, the weak spot where one system meets the other. Well, we were warned. Not that it makes much difference now. But — that bolt's at least five meters away. We can't possibly reach it.”

“Perhaps we can rig a pole and attach the torch to the end?”

“We've nothing like that on board, we'd have to improvise. What would be strong enough? And we would have to light the torch here and work it over there while it was burning. Right between all that piping and the guts of the atomic engine. If that's injured there goes the entire ball game.”

“There it goes indeed,” the Colonel said, snapping open the latches on the tool pack. Inside, held in clips, were the tools specially designed to work in the cold and vacuum of space, to be operated by clumsy gloved hands. He drew out the torch. “The very thoughts you have outlined crossed my mind. The only way to cut that bolt is for someone to go over there and cut that bolt.”

“We'll have to unship one of the AMUs.”

“No time for that, you said so yourself. So if you'll aid me

I'll go over there and cut it. First the lighter, to be sure the torch is operating. Wonderful, I turn it off…”

“Colonel Kuznekov, what are you talking about? Your umbilical won't reach over there.”

“Obviously. So I breathe in a good deal of air, disconnect it, do the job and return. I can hold my breath three, maybe four minutes. It should be enough. If I black out I count upon you to reconnect my oxygen in time.”

“Stop him!”

“He can't, no…”

The intercom roared with the cries of many voices. “Silence!” Patrick shouted. “If you have anything to say speak up by turn. Nadya.”

“I… nothing. You are the commander, you must decide. The bolt must be cut.”

“Coretta, Ely? Anyone else?”

It took a moment for anyone to speak, then Ely's voice came over. “There's nothing to say, I guess. Down here, we're just passengers. But isn't there any other way?”

“Negative,” Kuznekov said brusquely. “Now we must begin. 'There's no time to waste.”

“Agreed,” Patrick said. “The first problem's going to be how to disconnect your suit from the umbilicals without your losing all your oxygen. If we just unplug it goes whoosh.”

“I have concerned myself over that too and think I see an answer.”