They gathered tools and instruments in a silence that smoldered. When they left the air lock, they had the usual trouble in seeing. Then their pupils expanded and their minds switched over to the alien gestalt. A raw blaze leaped forth and struck them.
Feeling his way aft along the lattice, Sverdlov sensed his anger bleed away. The boy was right—it did no good to curse dead matter. Save your rage for those who needed it, tyrants and knaves and their sycophants. And you might even wonder
—it was horrible to think—if they were worth it either. He stood with ten thousand bitter suns around him; but none was Sol or Tau Ceti. 0 Polaris, death’s lodestar, are we as little as all that?
He reached the end of the framework, clipped his life line on, and squirted a light-diffusing fog at the ring. Not too close, he didn’t want it to interfere with his ion stream, but it gave him three-dimensional illumination. He let his body float out behind while he pulled himself squinting-close to the accelerator.
“Hm-m-m, yes, it’s been pitted,” he said. “Naturally it would be the negatron side which went wrong. Protons do a lot less harm, striking terrene matter. Hand me that counter, will you?”
Ryerson, wordless and faceless, gave him the instrument. Sverdlov checked for radioactivity. “Not enough to matter,” he decided. ‘We won’t have to replace this ring, we stopped the process in time. By readjusting the magnetic coils we can compensate for the change in the electric focusing field caused by its gnawed-up shape. I hope.”
Ryerson said nothing. Good grief, thought Sverdlov, did I offend him that much? Hitherto they had talked a little when working outside, not real conversation but a trivial remark now and then, a grunt for response . . . just enough to drown out the hissing of the stars.
“Hello, pilot. Give me a microamp. One second duration.”
Sverdlov moved out of the way. Even a millionth of an ampere blast should be avoided, if it was an anti-proton current.
Electric sparks crawled like ivy over the bones of the accelerator. Sverdlov, studying the instruments he had planted along the ion path, nodded. “What’s the potentiometer say, Dave?” he asked. “If it’s saying anything fit to print, I mean.”
“Standard,” snapped Ryerson.
Maybe I should apologize, thought Sverdlov. And then, in a geyser: Judas, no! If he’s so thin-skinned as all that, he can rot before I do.
The stars swarmed just out of reach. Sometimes changes in the eyeball made them seem to move. Like flies. A million burning flies. Sverdlov swatted, unthinkingly, and snarled to himself.
After a while it occurred to him that Ryerson’s nerves must also be rubbed pretty thin. You shouldn’t expect the kid to act absolutely sensibly. I lost my own head at the very start of this affair, thought Sverdlov. The memory thickened his temples with blood. He began unbolting the Number One magnetic coil as if it were an enemy he must destroy as savagely as possible.
“O.K., gimme another microamp one-second test.”
“Try shifting Number Two a few centimeters forward,” said Ryerson.
“You crazy?” snorted Sverdlov. Yes, I suppose we’re all a bit crazy by now. “Look, if the deflected stream strikes here, you’ll want to bend it down like so and—”
“Never mind.” Ryerson could not be seen to move, in the bulk of his armor, but Sverdlov imagined him turning away
with a contemptuous shrug. It took several minutes of tinkering for the Krasnan to realize that the Earthling had visualized the interplay of forces correctly.
He swallowed. “You were right,” he emitted.
“Well, let’s get it reassembled,” said Ryerson coldly.
Very good, Earth snob, sir. Sverdlov attacked the coils for several more minutes. “Test blast.” Not quite. Try another setting. “Test blast. Repeat.” That seemed to be it. “Give me a milliamp this time . . . A full amp . . . hm-m-m.” The current had flowed too short a time to heat the ring, but needles wavered wildly.
“We’re still getting some deflection,” said Sverdlov. “Matter of velocity distribution. A certain small percentage of the particles have abnormal velocities and—” He realized he was crouched under Ryerson’s hidden eyes babbling the obvious. “I’ll try sliding this one a wee bit more aside. Gimme that vernier wrench—So. One amp test blast, please.”