"Time’s Eye" - читать интересную книгу автора (Clarke Arthur Charles, Baxter Stephen)

8. On Orbit

After hours of fruitless calling, Musa sat back in his couch.

The three cosmonauts lay side by side, like huge orange bugs in their spacesuits. For once the coziness of the Soyuz capsule, the way they were pressed against each other, was comforting rather than confining.

“I don’t understand it,” Musa said.

“You said that already,” Sable murmured.

There was a grim silence. Since the moment they had lost contact, the atmosphere between them had been explosive.

After three months of living in such close quarters, Kolya had come to understand Sable, he thought. Aged forty, Sable came from a poor New Orleans family with a complicated genetic history. Some of the Russians who had served with her admired the strength of character that had taken her so far—even now, in NASA’s Astronaut Office, to be anything other than male and WASP was a disadvantage. Other cosmonauts, less charitable, joked about how launch weight manifests had to be recalculated if Sable was onboard, on account of the immense chip she carried on her shoulder. Most agreed that if she had been Russian she would never have passed the psychological tests required for every cosmonaut to prove suitable for space duty.

During the three-month tour on Station, Kolya himself had gotten on fairly well with Sable, perhaps because they were opposite types. Kolya was a serving Air Force officer, and he had a young family in Moscow. To him, spaceflight was an adventure, but what drove him were loyalty to his family and duty to his country, and he was content to let his career develop where it would. Kolya recognized a fierce, burning ambition in Sable, which would not be satisfied, surely, until she had reached the pinnacles of her profession: command of Clavius Base, or perhaps even a seat on a Mars flight. Perhaps Sable had seen Kolya as no threat to her own glittering progress.

But he had learned to be wary of her. And now, in this awkward, frightening situation, he waited for her to explode.

Musa clapped his gloved hands together, taking command. “I think it is obvious we won’t be proceeding to reentry just yet. We should not worry. In the olden days Soviet craft would only have contact with their ground controllers for twenty minutes of every ninety-minute orbit, and so the Soyuz was designed to function independently—”

“Maybe the fault isn’t with us,” Sable said. “What if it’s on the ground?”

Musa scoffed. “What fault could possibly take out a whole chain of ground stations?”

“A war,” said Kolya.

Musa said firmly, “Such speculation is useless. In time, whatever the fault, the ground will reestablish contact, and we will return to our flight plan. All we have to do is wait. But in the meantime we have work to do.” He rummaged under his seat for a copy of the on-orbit checklist.

He was right, Kolya realized; the little ship wouldn’t run itself, and if it was to be stuck up here in orbit for one more revolution—or two, or three?—its crew would have to help it function. Was the compartment’s pressure appropriate, was the mixture of gases correct? Was the ship rotating properly as it followed the great curve of its orbit, so that its solar panels tracked the sun? All these things had to be ensured.

Soon the three of them had settled into a familiar, and somehow reassuring, routine of checks—as if, after all, they were in control of their destiny, Kolya thought.

But the fact was that everything had changed, and it couldn’t be ignored.

The Soyuz was floating into the shadow of the planet again. Kolya peered through his window, looking for the orange-yellow glow of cities, hoping for reassurance. But the land was dark.