“Give it more juice,” said Hutch.

“You sure?”

“Yes, Bill.” She tried to keep her voice level. “Do it.”

The thrusters fired again. Continued firing. Hutch crouched on Wendy’s hull, saying Come on come on, softly under her breath. The washroom squeezed down and started to break apart, but finally it came free.

Hutch seized Nick and used the go-pack to get clear of the stricken ship. Moments later black gloop spilled out of the hole.

TOR WAS COLD. He was floating in the box (he no longer thought of the compartment as a washroom), trying to hang on to the sink so he didn’t bang around too much. He’d caught enough of the conversation outside to scare him out of his pants, had he been wearing any. He’d drawn his legs up and rolled into a ball, trying to conserve his body heat. To make things worse, it was getting hard to breathe.

Hutch reassured him. They were outside now, she said, and everything was going to be fine. All he had to do was be patient. Hang on. Her favorite phrase. Hang on.

He said something back to her, Hanging, or Right, babe, or some other piece of stupid bravado. He didn’t want to say much because he didn’t want her to hear how scared he was.

He knew what was happening, had visualized the box being dragged out into the vacuum, felt everything icing over, wondered whether the interior air pressure might not cause it to explode, dumping him outside, where he’d freeze like an icicle before anyone could do anything.

The washroom was being pulled from the top, so he was still settled more or less on the deck, which was hard plastic disguised to look like wood. His lamp was still on, casting ferocious cones of light around the interior, picking out the showerhead, or his feet, or the door which had once led out into a room full of artifacts and breathing space.

“Okay, we’re in good shape now. On our way to the Memphis.”

On the way to Memphis. He tried to convert it into a tune. A song. In fact, there was such a song. But he couldn’t remember the lyrics. On the way, la-de-da, to old Memphis. Right, old was in there somewhere.

If he got through this, he decided, he’d find a way to put it on canvas. Capture the washroom coming through the hole in the ship’s hull. Yes. He could see it clearly. Hutch leading the way, looking positively supernatural with those elfin features, and her e-suit providing an aura in the starlight.

The air was thick and heavy, and he couldn’t get it into his lungs. The darkness weighed on him and began to creep in at the edges of his vision.

“There’ll be a bump.” Hutch sounded desperately far away. “We’re using the lander to pull.”

The fake wooden floor rose up and hit him. Gave him a good push. That was okay. Let’s hustle.

HUTCH AND NICK watched as the lander grew smaller, headed toward the Memphis’s open cargo hatch. Bill was in charge now and he had to take it slowly because they needed a soft landing at the other end.

“What do you think?” asked Nick.

“He’s still breathing,” she said. “I think we’ll be okay.” Ahead of them the Memphis was lit up. The lander moved steadily toward it, trailing the washroom on its long tether.

Behind her, another piece of the Wendy folded up and drifted off.

TOR FLOATED IN the dark, barely conscious, shut into a remote corner of his brain. His lamp must have gone out. He had trouble remembering where he was. His breathing was loud and labored, and his heart pounded. Stay conscious. Keep calm. Think about Hutch. Out there in the starlight. He tried to imagine her naked, but the picture wouldn’t come.

He clung to the sink. It was cold and metallic and cylindrical, and he didn’t know why it was important that he not let go. But he didn’t. It was his anchor to the world.

The darkness was somehow darker and thicker than ordinary darkness. It was something behind his eyes, shutting him down, walling him off in a separate cave somewhere, as if he were no more than a witness, an observer, already a disembodied spirit vaguely aware of distant voices calling his name. The voices were familiar, belonged to old friends he hadn’t seen in decades, his father long gone, dead a quarter century ago in a skiing accident of all things, his mom who’d taken him for walks down to Piedmont Square to feed the pigeons. He’d had a small blue wagon, Sammy Doober it had said on the side, named for the comic strip character. Sammy with his fox’s nose and his balloon.

Hutch.

Her shining eyes floated in front of him. The way she’d looked four years ago at Cassidy’s. He remembered the way she had kissed him, her lips soft and urgent against his. And her breasts pressed against him.

He loved her. Had loved her from the first time he’d seen her….

An ineffable sorrow settled around him. He was going to die in here and she would never really know how he felt.

ALYX SAT ALONE in the lander watching as the Memphis got bigger. She had tried to speak to Tor, to encourage him, let him know that they were close, and she’d heard something, but she couldn’t make out any words. She was terrified for him, and she wanted to tell Hutch that she thought Tor was in bad shape, but she didn’t dare use the circuit because she didn’t know how to switch to a private channel and she was afraid Tor would overhear her. So she called George instead, telling him—unnecessarily—to be ready.

“Just get him here,” said George.

That was Bill’s task, of course. The AI guided the lander, moving so slowly that Alyx wanted to scream at him, demand that he hustle it up.

“Alyx.” Bill’s voice was calm, as though nothing unusual were happening. “Get ready to release him.”

She grabbed her shears and went through the airlock, carefully following Hutch’s instructions not to lose contact with the hull at any time.

It had surprised her that she found it so easy to go outside. When Hutch had first described the plan, she’d become frightened, and Hutch had looked at her until Nick assured her it was okay, she could do it. She’d realized it had come down either to her or George doing it, and Hutch wanted George on the receiving end because somebody was going to have to break open the box.

When she’d originally gone outside, to wait for Hutch to throw her the cable so she could secure it to the antenna mount, she’d surprised herself with her own fearlessness. Things had been getting a little scary at the time, and Hutch threw her the cable, and she’d picked it off and tied it down like a champ.

Now she was repeating the action, climbing up onto the cabin roof while the Memphis came closer. She dropped to one knee and glanced back at the washroom. It was pale green in the starlight.

Washroom to the stars.

“Alyx,” said Bill. “When I tell you—”

“I’m ready.”

There was some play in the cable. She opened the shears, caught the cable between the blades, and waited.

“Now,” said Bill.

She pushed down on the handle. Tried again.

The cable resisted.

“Is it done, Alyx?”

She briefly debated trying to untie the knot. But it would take too long. She summoned everything she had and squeezed again. The line parted. “Done,” she said.

“Good.”

Next she untied the remaining cable and threw it clear of the lander. “That’s strong stuff.”

“Go back inside,” said Bill. “Quickly.”

Alyx resented being ordered around by an AI, but she understood the need for haste. She turned, hurried back to the hatch, and climbed into her seat. The restraint harness slid down, the airlock closed, and she heard the hiss of incoming air. Then the seat pushed against her as thrusters fired and the vehicle changed direction.

She tried to remember a moment anywhere in her life in which she’d felt so good about herself.

GEORGE WATCHED THE box as it drifted toward him. It was an unseemly object, trailing pipes and cables and pieces of shelving. A last few ice crystals floated away. It had gone into a slow tumble, and he began to doubt that it would make it through the cargo door.