congealed into a tiny snow cloud that drifted down the torn main-deck corridor. Foyle heaved at the exhausted air tank, floated it out of the locker and abandoned it. One minute was gone.
He turned and propelled himself through the floating debris towards the hatch to the ballast hold. He did not run; his gait was the unique locomotion of free-fall and weightlessness . . . thrusts with foot, elbow and hand against deck, wall and corner, a slow-motion darting through space like a bat flying under water. Foyle shot through the hatch into the darkside ballast hold. Two minutes were gone.
Like all spaceships, Nomad was ballasted and stiffened with the mass of her gas tanks laid down the length of her keel like a long lumber raft tapped at the sides by a labyrinth of pipe fittings. Foyle took a minute disconnecting an air tank. He had no way of knowing whether it was full or already exhausted; whether he would fight it back to his locker only to discover that it was empty and his life was ended. Once a week he endured this game of space-poker.
There was a roaring in his ears; the air in his spacesuit was rapidly going foul. He yanked the massy cylinder towards the ballast hatch, ducked to let it sail over his head, then thrust himself after it. He swung the tank through the hatch. Four minutes had elapsed and he was shaking and blacking out. He guided the tank down the main-deck corridor and bulled it into the tool locker.
He slammed the locked door, dogged it, found a hammer on a shelf and swung it thrice against the frozen tank to loosen the valve. Foyle twisted the handle grimly. With the last of his strength he unsealed the helmet of his spacesuit, lest he suffocate within the suit while the locker filled with air . . . if this tank contained air. He fainted, as he had fainted so often before, never knowing whether this was death.
`Who are you?'
'Gully Foyle.'
`Where are you from?'
'Terra'
`Where are you now?'
`Space.'
`Where are you bound?'
He awoke. He was alive. He wasted no time on prayer or thanks but continued the business of survival. In the darkness he explored the locker shelves where he kept his rations. There were only a few packets left. Since he was already wearing the patched spacesuit he might just as well run the gauntlet of vacuum again and replenish his supplies.
He flooded his spacesuit with sir from the tank, resealed his helmet and sailed out into the frost and light again. He squirmed down the main-deck corridor and ascended the remains of a stairway to control-deck, which was no more than a roofed corridor in space, most of the walls were destroyed.
With the sun on his right and the stars on his left, Foyle shot aft towards the galley storeroom. Halfway down the corridor he passed a door-frame still standing foursquare between deck and roof. The leaf still hung on its hinges, half open, a door to nowhere. Behind it was all space and the steady stars.
As Foyle passed the door he had a quick view of himself reflected in the polished chrome of the leaf . . . Gully Foyle, a giant black creature, bearded, crusted with dried blood and filth, emaciated, with sick, patient eyes . . . and followed always by a stream of floating debris, the raffle disturbed by his motion and following him through space like the tail of a festering comet.
Foyle turned into the galley storeroom and began looting with the methodical speed of five months' habit. Most of the bottled goods were frozen solid and exploded. Many of the canned goods had lost their containers, for tin crumbles to dust in the absolute zero of space. Foyle gathered up ration; packets, concentrates and a chunk of ice from the burst water tank. He threw everything into a large copper cauldron and then turned and darted out of the storeroom, carrying the cauldron.
At the door to nowhere Foyle glanced at himself again, reflected in the chrome leaf framed in the stars. Then he stopped his motion in
He turned and propelled himself through the floating debris towards the hatch to the ballast hold. He did not run; his gait was the unique locomotion of free-fall and weightlessness . . . thrusts with foot, elbow and hand against deck, wall and corner, a slow-motion darting through space like a bat flying under water. Foyle shot through the hatch into the darkside ballast hold. Two minutes were gone.
Like all spaceships, Nomad was ballasted and stiffened with the mass of her gas tanks laid down the length of her keel like a long lumber raft tapped at the sides by a labyrinth of pipe fittings. Foyle took a minute disconnecting an air tank. He had no way of knowing whether it was full or already exhausted; whether he would fight it back to his locker only to discover that it was empty and his life was ended. Once a week he endured this game of space-poker.
There was a roaring in his ears; the air in his spacesuit was rapidly going foul. He yanked the massy cylinder towards the ballast hatch, ducked to let it sail over his head, then thrust himself after it. He swung the tank through the hatch. Four minutes had elapsed and he was shaking and blacking out. He guided the tank down the main-deck corridor and bulled it into the tool locker.
He slammed the locked door, dogged it, found a hammer on a shelf and swung it thrice against the frozen tank to loosen the valve. Foyle twisted the handle grimly. With the last of his strength he unsealed the helmet of his spacesuit, lest he suffocate within the suit while the locker filled with air . . . if this tank contained air. He fainted, as he had fainted so often before, never knowing whether this was death.
`Who are you?'
'Gully Foyle.'
`Where are you from?'
'Terra'
`Where are you now?'
`Space.'
`Where are you bound?'
He awoke. He was alive. He wasted no time on prayer or thanks but continued the business of survival. In the darkness he explored the locker shelves where he kept his rations. There were only a few packets left. Since he was already wearing the patched spacesuit he might just as well run the gauntlet of vacuum again and replenish his supplies.
He flooded his spacesuit with sir from the tank, resealed his helmet and sailed out into the frost and light again. He squirmed down the main-deck corridor and ascended the remains of a stairway to control-deck, which was no more than a roofed corridor in space, most of the walls were destroyed.
With the sun on his right and the stars on his left, Foyle shot aft towards the galley storeroom. Halfway down the corridor he passed a door-frame still standing foursquare between deck and roof. The leaf still hung on its hinges, half open, a door to nowhere. Behind it was all space and the steady stars.
As Foyle passed the door he had a quick view of himself reflected in the polished chrome of the leaf . . . Gully Foyle, a giant black creature, bearded, crusted with dried blood and filth, emaciated, with sick, patient eyes . . . and followed always by a stream of floating debris, the raffle disturbed by his motion and following him through space like the tail of a festering comet.
Foyle turned into the galley storeroom and began looting with the methodical speed of five months' habit. Most of the bottled goods were frozen solid and exploded. Many of the canned goods had lost their containers, for tin crumbles to dust in the absolute zero of space. Foyle gathered up ration; packets, concentrates and a chunk of ice from the burst water tank. He threw everything into a large copper cauldron and then turned and darted out of the storeroom, carrying the cauldron.
At the door to nowhere Foyle glanced at himself again, reflected in the chrome leaf framed in the stars. Then he stopped his motion in
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