bewilderment. He stared at the stars behind the door, which had become familiar friends after five months. There was an intruder among them; a comet, it seemed, with an invisible head and a short, spurting tail. Then Foyle realized he was staring at a spaceship, stern rockets flaring as it accelerated on a sunward course that must pass him.
`No,' he muttered. `No, man. No.' He was continually suffering firm hallucinations. He turned to resume the journey back to his coffin. Then he looked again. It was still a spaceship, stern rockets flaring as it accelerated on a sunward course which must pass him. He discussed the illusion with Eternity.
`Six months already,' he said in his gutter tongue. `Is it now? You listen a me, Heels. I talkin' a deal, is all. I look again, sweet Heels. If it's a ship, I'm yours. You own me. But if it's a gaff, man . . . if it's no ship . . . I unseal right now and blow my guts. We both play square, us. Now reach me the sign, yes or no, is all.'
He looked for a third time. For the third time he saw a spaceship, stern rockets flaring as it accelerated on a sunward course which must pass him.
It was the sign. He believed. He was saved.
Foyle shoved off and went hurtling down control-deck corridor towards the bridge. But at the companionway stairs he restrained himself. He could not remain conscious for more than a few moments without refilling his spacesuit. He gave the approaching spaceship one pleading look, then shot down to the tool locker and pumped his suit full.
He mounted to the control bridge. Through the starboard observation port he saw the spaceship, stern rockets still flaring, evidently making a major alteration in course, for it was bearing down on him very slowly.
On the panel marked FLARES, Foyle pressed the DISTRESS button. There was a three-second pause during which he suffered. Then white radiance blinded him as the distress signal went off in three triple bursts, nine prayers for help. Foyle pressed the button twice again, and twice more the flares flashed in space while the radioactives incorporated in their combustion set up a static howl that must register on any waveband of any receiver.
The stranger's jets cut off. He had been seen. He would be saved. He was reborn. He exulted.
Foyle darted back to his locker and replenished his spacesuit again. He began to weep. He started to gather his possessions . . . a faceless clock which he kept wound just to listen to the ticking, a lug wrench with a hand-shaped handle which he would hold in lonely moments, an egg-sliver upon whose wires he would pluck primitive tunes . . . He dropped them in his excitement, hunted for them in the dark, then began to laugh at himself.
He filled his spacesuit with air once more and capered back to the bridge. He punched a flare button labeled: RESCUE. From the hull of the Nomad shot a sunlet that burst and hung, flooding miles of space with a harsh white light.
`Come on, baby you,' Foyle crooned. `Hurry up, man. Come on, baby, baby you.' Like a ghost torpedo, the stranger slid into the outermost rim of light, approaching slowly, looking him over. For a moment Foyle's heart constricted; the ship was behaving so cautiously that he feared she was an enemy vessel from the Outer Satellites. Then he saw the famous red and blue emblem on her side, the trademark of the mighty industrial clan of Presteign; Presteign of Terra, powerful, munificent, beneficent And he knew this was a sister ship, for the Nomad was also Presteign owned. He knew this was an angel from space hovering over him.
`Sweet, sister,' Foyle crooned. `Baby angel, fly away home with me.' The ship came abreast of Foyle, illuminated ports along its side glowing with friendly light, its name and registry number clearly visible in illuminated figures on the hull: Vorga-T: 1339. The ship was alongside him in a moment, passing him in a second, disappearing in a third.
The sister had
`No,' he muttered. `No, man. No.' He was continually suffering firm hallucinations. He turned to resume the journey back to his coffin. Then he looked again. It was still a spaceship, stern rockets flaring as it accelerated on a sunward course which must pass him. He discussed the illusion with Eternity.
`Six months already,' he said in his gutter tongue. `Is it now? You listen a me, Heels. I talkin' a deal, is all. I look again, sweet Heels. If it's a ship, I'm yours. You own me. But if it's a gaff, man . . . if it's no ship . . . I unseal right now and blow my guts. We both play square, us. Now reach me the sign, yes or no, is all.'
He looked for a third time. For the third time he saw a spaceship, stern rockets flaring as it accelerated on a sunward course which must pass him.
It was the sign. He believed. He was saved.
Foyle shoved off and went hurtling down control-deck corridor towards the bridge. But at the companionway stairs he restrained himself. He could not remain conscious for more than a few moments without refilling his spacesuit. He gave the approaching spaceship one pleading look, then shot down to the tool locker and pumped his suit full.
He mounted to the control bridge. Through the starboard observation port he saw the spaceship, stern rockets still flaring, evidently making a major alteration in course, for it was bearing down on him very slowly.
On the panel marked FLARES, Foyle pressed the DISTRESS button. There was a three-second pause during which he suffered. Then white radiance blinded him as the distress signal went off in three triple bursts, nine prayers for help. Foyle pressed the button twice again, and twice more the flares flashed in space while the radioactives incorporated in their combustion set up a static howl that must register on any waveband of any receiver.
The stranger's jets cut off. He had been seen. He would be saved. He was reborn. He exulted.
Foyle darted back to his locker and replenished his spacesuit again. He began to weep. He started to gather his possessions . . . a faceless clock which he kept wound just to listen to the ticking, a lug wrench with a hand-shaped handle which he would hold in lonely moments, an egg-sliver upon whose wires he would pluck primitive tunes . . . He dropped them in his excitement, hunted for them in the dark, then began to laugh at himself.
He filled his spacesuit with air once more and capered back to the bridge. He punched a flare button labeled: RESCUE. From the hull of the Nomad shot a sunlet that burst and hung, flooding miles of space with a harsh white light.
`Come on, baby you,' Foyle crooned. `Hurry up, man. Come on, baby, baby you.' Like a ghost torpedo, the stranger slid into the outermost rim of light, approaching slowly, looking him over. For a moment Foyle's heart constricted; the ship was behaving so cautiously that he feared she was an enemy vessel from the Outer Satellites. Then he saw the famous red and blue emblem on her side, the trademark of the mighty industrial clan of Presteign; Presteign of Terra, powerful, munificent, beneficent And he knew this was a sister ship, for the Nomad was also Presteign owned. He knew this was an angel from space hovering over him.
`Sweet, sister,' Foyle crooned. `Baby angel, fly away home with me.' The ship came abreast of Foyle, illuminated ports along its side glowing with friendly light, its name and registry number clearly visible in illuminated figures on the hull: Vorga-T: 1339. The ship was alongside him in a moment, passing him in a second, disappearing in a third.
The sister had
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