Far from Home | Page 3

operation and radio had a safety margin of one
hour over the maximum air supply, if the radio wasn't used. At this
time Johnny couldn't see much use for it.
Item: One Waste Disposal Cylinder, expendable, complete with motor
and full fuel tanks, packed, according to his loading manifest with
sundry supplies to avoid dead stowage space. Seldom used, since most
station waste was ferried down in the otherwise empty service ships,
they occasionally handled certain laboratory refuse it was considered
best to destroy in space. The cylinders were decelerated and allowed to
fall into atmosphere where the friction of the unchecked plunge burned
up what the magnesium charge inside had not already. The rest of the
shipwrecked material had by now drifted beyond easy reach and
Johnny did not feel like wasting fuel rounding it up.
Position? A matter of memory and some guesswork by now. Some ten
minutes out of powered flight at the time of collision, coasting up to
station orbit where a quick boost from the jets would have made up his
lost velocity to orbit standard. But there would be no boost now. So
he'd just fall off around the other side, falling around and into Mother
Earth, to skim atmosphere and climb on past and up to touch orbit
altitude--and down again. A nice elliptical orbit, apogee a thousand odd
miles, perigee, sixty-seventy--perhaps. How much speed had he left?
How long would it be before he brushed the fringe of atmosphere once
too often and too deep? Just another meteor.
And survival. A comparatively simple problem since the mechanics of
it were restricted by a simple formula in which his role would seem to
be a passive one. To survive he must be rescued by his own kind in

twelve hours or less. To be rescued he must be seen or heard. Since his
radio was a simple short-range intercom it followed that he must be
seen first and heard later. Being seen meant making a sufficiently
distinguishable blip on somebody's radar screen to arouse comment
over a blip where, according to schedule no orbiting blip should be.
* * * * *
Johnny was painfully aware that the human body is very small in space.
The cylinder would be a help but he doubted it would be enough. Then
he thought of the material inside the cylinder. He pried back the lugs
holding the cover in place with the screwdriver from his belt kit. He
started pulling out packages, bags, boxes, thrusting them behind him,
above him, downwards; cereals, ready mixed pastries, bundles of
disposable paper overalls--toilet paper! He worked furiously, now stuck
halfway down the cylinder, kicking the bundles behind him. He
emerged finally in a flurry of articles clutching a large plastic bag that
had filled the entire lower end of the tank.
About him drifted a sizable cloud of station supplies, stirring sluggishly
after his emergence. He pushed them a bit more, distributing them as
much as possible without losing them altogether.
Johnny tore open the big bag and was instantly enveloped in clinging
folds of ribbon released from the pressure of its packing. He knew what
it was now, the big string of ribbon chutes for the Venus Expedition,
intended for dropping a remote controlled mobile observer to the as yet
unseen and unknown surface. Johnny had ferried parts of the crab-like
mechanical monster on the last run, and illogically found himself
worrying momentarily over the set-back to the Probe his mischance
would cause.
But in the next minute he was making fast the lower end of the string to
the WD cylinder, then, finding the top chute he toed his pedals and
jetted himself out, trailing the string out to its full extent.
Now the period of action was over and he had done all he could,
Johnny found himself dreading the time of waiting to follow. He would

have time for thinking, and thinking wasn't profitable under the
circumstances unless it were something definitely constructive and
applicable to his present and future well-being. Waiting was always
bad.
Surely they would find him soon. Surely they would press the search
farther even when they found Able Jake as they couldn't fail to in time.
A tightness started in his throat. Johnny quickly drowned the thought in
a flood of inconsequential nonsense, a trick he had learned as a green
pilot. He might sleep though, if sleep were a possible thing in this cold
emptiness. No one, to his recollection, had ever done so outside a ship
or station--the space psychology types would be interested doubtless.
* * * * *
Johnny tied his life line to the WD cylinder and then jetted clear of his
artificial cloud, positioning himself so that it formed a partial screen
between himself and the