The big satellite seemed to hang motionless in space just ahead of him, a huge inert chunk of metal, dazzlingly brilliant where the sun lit its curving flank, totally invisible where it was in shadow. It looked ridiculously like a crescent moon made of flush-welded aluminum. A smaller crescent puzzled Kinsman until he realized it was a rocket nozzle hanging from the satellite's tailcan.
"I'm parked off her stern about fifty meters," he re- ported into his helmet microphone. "She looks like the complete upper stage of a Proton-class booster. I'm going outside."
"Better make it fast." Smitty's voice was taut, high- pitched with nervousness. "That second spacecraft is closing in fast."
"E.T.A.?"
A pause while voices mumbled in the background. Then, "About twenty minutes . . . maybe less."
"Great."
"Colonel Murdock says you can abort the mission if you feel you have to."
Same to you, pal. Aloud, he replied, "I'm going to take a close look at her. Get inside if I can. Call you back in fifteen minutes, max."
No response. Kinsman smiled to himself at the realiza- tion that Colonel Murdock did not see fit to remind him that the Russian satellite might be booby-trapped. Old Mother Murdock hardly forgot about such items. He simply had decided not to make the choice of aborting the mission too attractive.
Gimmicked or not, the satellite was too near and too enticing to turn back now. Kinsman quickly checked out his space suit, pumped the air from his cockpit into the storage tanks, and then popped the hatch over his head.
Out of the womb and into the world.
He climbed out and teetered on the lip of the hatch, coiling the umbilical cord attached to his suit. Murdock and his staff had decided on using an umbilical instead of a bulky backpack and MMU because he was alone in orbit, without 113 backup, and because they wanted Kinsman to be able to slide through the hatch of the Soviet satellite and inspect its interior. They had been confident that Kinsman could bring the Manta close enough to the Russian craft so that an umbilical could keep him supplied with air and electrical power, and provide a safety tether back to his own cockpit.
Kinsman pushed off from the hatch and floated like a coasting underwater swimmer toward the Russian satellite. He glanced down at the night side of Earth. City lights glittered through the clouds; he could make out the shape of the Great Lakes and a distant glow that had to be the Boston-to-Washington corridor.
They're right, he realized. A bomb set off here will black out the whole damned country.
As he approached the satellite the sun rose over the curve of its hull and nearly blinded him, despite the automatic darkening of his visor. He kicked downward and ducked behind the satellite's protective shadow. Still half-blinded by the glare, he bumped into its massive body and rebounded gently. With an effort he reached out and grabbed one of the handgrips studding its surface.
I claim this island for Isabella of Spain. Now where the hell's the hatch?
It was over on the sunlit side, he found after spending several precious minutes searching. It was not difficult to figure out how to open it, even though the instructions were in Cyrillic letters. Kinsman floated head-down and turned the locking mechanism. He felt it click.
For an instant he hesitated. It might be booby-trapped, he heard the Colonel warn.
The hell with it.
Kinsman pulled the hatch open. No explosion, no sound at all. A dim light came from within the satellite. Carefully he slid down inside, trailing the umbilical cord. A trio of faint emergency lights glowed weakly.
"Saving battery power," he muttered to himself.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. Then he began to appreciate what he saw. The satellite was packed with equipment. He could not make out most of it, but it looked like high-powered scientific gear to him. He 114 opened a few panels and saw capacitor banks, heavy-looking magnetic field coils, neatly stacked electronic replacement parts. A particle accelerator device? he wondered. It was not a laser, of that he was certain.
Up forward was living quarters, room enough for three cosmonauts, maybe four. Compact cabinets holding cans of food. Microwave oven. Freezer stocked with more food. Cameras and recording equipment.
"Very cozy."
He stepped back into the main compartment, where the enigmatic scientific gear was. Take home some souvenirs, he thought, opening cabinets, searching. No documents, no instruction books or paperwork of any kind. He found a small set of hand wrenches and unfastened them from their fixture.
