He was drifting now, out from between the booster rocket and the satellite station, heading towards the depths of space, with nothing near enough to grab on to.

An inexperienced space walker would have kept on drifting, clutching vainly at the objects that passed just out of reach, but the Colonel knew better than this. He was already rotating slowly from the last impact. Bending over he drew his legs up to his chest in a single swift motion, increasing his speed of rotation. Just as a stone on a string will spin faster when the string is shortened, so did he rotate faster.

Then he straightened out to his full length, reached out — grabbed the angled brace of one of the jacks. There were worried questions in his ears and Patrick realized he had been watching the drama in space in silent horror.

“It's fine now. The Colonel has had difficulty reaching the bolt but he is almost to it.”

“He will be running out of air!” It was Gregor's voice, thick with fear.

“Not yet,” Patrick told him. “He's not only hyperventilated but he has oxygen in his suit. He'll make it.”

The Colonel was making it. With a final swing he reached the bolt and examined it for a long moment. Only then did he swing out as far as he could and attach a clip from his belt to the base of Prometheus. Then, carefully and methodically, he ignited the torch, adjusted the flame to his liking, reached out and put the flame to the length of steel.

“It's working, he's cutting it!” Patrick shouted, so loudly that his voice echoed inside the confines of the helmet and rang in his ears. “It's tough steel but it's glowing, I can see it, drops of metal coming off — almost through — THERE!”

The end was dramatic indeed. The pressure of all the jacks and hydraulic plungers was so great that, before the metal was cut through completely, the bolt snapped. Released at last the metal arms extended. In complete silence the two great metal shapes were pushed apart. Once started the motion continued, the core body drifting slowly away from Prometheus.

“It did it, it worked!” Patrick called out. “We have separation. And Kuznekov is all right, he's unclipping and starting back.”

He did not add that the Colonel was obviously in trouble. The minutes had ticked by, one by one, and his oxygen was finally exhausted. His movements were slow, clumsy. He pushed himself forward, grabbed the stub of the bolt and used this to accelerate himself towards Patrick. But his hand slipped as he fumbled his hold, drifting slowly. He shook his head, trying to drive away the blackness that pressed in on him. Then, with his last strength and consciousness he planted both feet on the bolt, waiting until he was lined up — then pressed down firmly.

Floating across the bottom of Prometheus, beside the bellshaped mouth of the atomic engine, straight towards Patrick. Limp now and barely conscious.

But not straight enough. His hand was out, hanging slackly, his arm kept in position by the pressurized fabric of the suit. Patrick seized the lip of metal with his left hand, pushed hard, straightened against the pull of the taut umbilicals, reaching out towards Kuznekov's hand drifting close.

Close, moving, but not close enough. He gasped with effort as he fought the tug of the umbilical cables, stretching, fingers extended as far as they could go.

Silently drifting, Kuznekov's hand went by scant inches from Patrick's groping fingers. In the full light of the sun Patrick could see the Colonel's closed eyes, his lined face calm and at ease.

The suited figure drifted by him, arm still extended as if in a last salute, into space and oblivion.

19

GET 05:32

Flax was washing down his Maalox with black coffee and it was not doing him any good at all. His gut rumbled continually and sent out sudden gusts of flame like a volcano about to blow up. Not only that but the coffee was going right to his bladder and he forgot the last time he had been to the John so he felt as if he had a full basketball down there. But he couldn't leave the console now.

“Listen, Patrick, we need this.” He was pleading and he knew it. “You were out of contact for almost forty minutes there, it was only the readouts from the bio-sensors that let us even know you were there at all. And when Kuznekov cut his umbilicals I'll tell you things were hairy down here. And you haven't had the TV cameras broadcasting more than a total of fifteen minutes the entire flight.”

“We have had some problems, Mission Control.”

“I know that — and I'm not making light of them in any way. But the situation here, without going into many details, demands your aid. We need that broadcast, Patrick — desperately.”

“I read you, Flax, and I'm getting agreement here. Before we repressurize the flight deck I'll give you a shot out of the hatch. Stand by, Mission Control.”