• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

“You don’t expect to find anyone alive, do you? Look at the surface temperature readings.”

“No, not alive,” Stopa said. “But I would be grateful for a single corpse that is not buried under three hundred meters of ice.”

“Mapping orbit it is,” said the pilot, reaching for the controls. “Maltha Obex, here we come.”

“Qella,” Josala amended quietly. “If at least a little bit of this planet doesn’t still belong to the Qella, we’re going to be a big disappointment to the folks who sent us here.”

From the close vantage of a standard mapping orbit, Qella’s face proved no more inviting. The land was blanketed in ice to a depth of up to a kilometer, while the shrunken oceans, too salty to freeze, were thick with bergs and growlers.

“That’s it,” said Stopa, studying the data from the final pass. “Some of the Qella might have tried to live on the ice—we might get lucky and find their remains only fifty or a hundred meters down. It’s something we can work on while we’re waiting for reinforcements. But we have to assume the worst, and call for help.”

“Maybe we can get Dr. Eckels’s team,” said Josala. “They were supposed to be finished with the Hoth excavation by now.”

“We can try. Open a hypercomm link to the Obroan Institute,” Stopa said.

“Ready,” said the pilot.

“This is Dr. Kroddok Stopa, verification code alpha-eager-four-four-two. I want Supply and Dispatch in on this call.”

“Done. Go ahead, Doctor.”

“I have an urgent requisition for additional equipment and staff for my current assignment.” Stopa quickly rattled off the detailed list he had composed. “Have all that?”

“Supply here—I have it. We’ll get working on it right away.”

“We also need a crack cold-site team out here. Is Dr. Eckels’s Hoth crew available?”

“They reported back yesterday. I don’t know what their status is,” said the dispatcher. “But I’ll send this up to the committee right away, and get you an answer pronto.”

“Assuming that they are available, what’s your best estimate of when we see them and the gear out here?”

“If we can push the turnaround on Penga Rift and get the team and gear aboard by midnight—you’re looking at sixteen standard days. Add on hour-for-hour for any delays getting off.”

“Is anything faster than Penga Rift available?”

“Not under institute registry—sorry.”

“Explore other options,” Stopa said shortly. “This has the highest priority. Stopa out.” He signaled the pilot to end the link. “Now you’d better get me Krenjsh at New Republic Intelligence. They need to know there’ll be a delay getting them what they asked for.”

* * *

There was little talking among the quartet trapped in the vagabond’s airlock. Everyone had a job to do.

Artoo searched for the inflow vents, while Threepio made entreaties to the vagabond’s masters. Lobot analyzed the acceleration and astrographic data while he inventoried the equipment on the equipment sled. And Lando returned to the control handle in the corner of the compartment to see if it would respond to him.

The handle proved immovable, and Lando’s touch alone elicited no detectable response from the ship. But through his efforts, he realized that his bare hand was puffy, stiff, and aching—the pressure from the wrist collar was compounding the damage done by the decompression.

“Do we have any sample bags?” Lando asked, returning to where Lobot and the equipment sled floated.

“Yes. Six small, six large, and two capsules of free-form sheet gel.”

“The bags—they’re self-sealing, right?”

“Yes, Lando.” He paused. “I’m sorry—I don’t have any more information. Do amnesiacs know that there are things they cannot remember? If so, then I know how it feels to have amnesia. What I know best is making links and browsing for information. I do not seem to have much other expertise.”

“Save the self-examination for another time,” said Lando. “Grab one of those small sample bags and see if we can’t improvise a mitten for me.”

Before long, they managed to attach the mouth of the sample bag above the