Starfarers by Poul Anderson. Chapter 37, 38, 39, 40

“I’m not so sure,” Nansen answered. “What could he hope to accomplish on that level? Not that he’s likely to be very rational anymore.”

“If he ever was, the murdering bastard.”

“Intercom check.” Nansen entered the cabin and touched the plate. “Hanny?”

“I have him!” Dayan’s voice shrilled. “Number Two spacegear locker. He’s just coming out of it, suited.”

“What? Es el totalmente loco?”

“Come on!” roared Ruszek, and dashed off.

“Send Mam and Selim there when next they call in. We two are on our way.”

The locker stood open. Again Nansen activated an intercom.

“He went into Spoke Two,” Dayan told him. “Bound for that exit, I’d guess.”

“What the devil? No shuttle at it. He’d remember that, whether or not he’s realized that we’ll have stalled them both. Is he wearing a jetpack?”

“No.”

“It takes time to fasten one on,” Ruszek said. “He hasn’t got time. Nor have we. Help me on with a suit. I’ll go after him.”

“Are you crazy, too?” Nansen snapped.

“Listen,” the mate retorted, “a good spaceman can make the jump across. He’s good. I’m better. Even if you free the shuttle, it’ll take too long. I think he’s counting on that. We did fight the robots together. I know him a little.” He stepped into the locker and unracked an outfit.

“The weapons. He must be making for them. I will go.”

Ruszek came out dragging the suit. He put his free hand behind his back. “No time to fight about that. Match me, odd or even.”

Nansen choked down a command and imitated the gesture. “Now,” he said. Both hands leaped around. Three fingers were outspread on his, two on the other man’s.

Ruszek laughed. “Ha, first fun I’ve had in daycycles.”

Nansen scowled but went after the additional hardware. Ruszek shed his pajamas and slipped on a skinsuit. He spread the opened outfit and put feet in the legs, right after left. He drew the fabric up and put his arms in. It slithered, molecules aligning as embedded sensors directed. When he brought the front edges together, they fused. He stood as if in a second skin, white and tough, moisture-absorbent, powered for sensitivity and flexibility.

Nansen inserted earplugs and lowered a fishbowl helmet. Its collar made the same kind of seamless juncture. Harness secured a biostat case on Ruszek’s back — air tank, composition regulator, temperature control, radio. Kneeling, Nansen guided feet into gripboots. Circuitry completed itself everywhere, unseen, like nerves healing; suit and man became an integrated system.

It was not meant for hard or prolonged service. It would keep the wearer alive and functional for several hours under ordinary conditions of vacuum and radiation, no more. But in its simplicity it could be donned by a man alone — faster if he had help.

Nansen rose. “Mam and Selim should join me soon,” he said. The helmet included an audio amplifier. “He and I will come after you. Don’t risk yourself needlessly. Keep track of Brent if you can. The three of us will take him.”

Ruszek shook his head. Light gleamed on the bald pate and on drops of sweat caught in the big mustache. “No good. The worst chance is that he’ll reach the arsenal, wherever it’s hidden, before we catch him. He could mow us down, or cripple the engines, the whole ship. Hanny — He could make Hanny die in the cold and dark.”

He set off down the passage, Nansen alongside. The maul swung to and fro in his grasp.

At the exit room Nansen offered his hand. When Ruszek took it the fabric felt cool and rubbery, like a snake. Ruszek nodded, swung around, and swarmed up the ladder into the spoke, out of sight.

Ordinarily he enjoyed the 180-meter climb, dizzying perspectives, aliveness in muscles, a sense of heightened strength as weight lessened. But it was too slow. He left the rungs at the bottom landing and hastened over the catwalk to the platform opposite. The railcar waited. He boarded and set it whizzing through the tube.

Deceleration at the end tugged harder than the pseudogravity there. He jumped out and approached the airlock. A red light warned that no shuttle was docked here. “I know, you idiot,” he said. His fingers stabbed at the manual board. The inner valve drew aside. He entered the chamber. The valve closed.

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