Skyfall

The Colonel opened the tool pack and reached in. All of the devices bore little resemblance to their Earthly counterparts because of the unusual conditions of working in space. Small tools could not be held easily in the thick gloves, nor could fine adjustments be made on them by hand. Nor, when tools were being used, could gravity be counted upon for help. We do not think of gravity until it is not there. On Earth it is a simple thing to put a wrench over the head of a bolt, to brace and push and turn it. Not so in space, in free fall. Without gravity to act as an anchor Newton's third law comes into its own. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. If the bit of a power drill goes in one direction, whoever is holding the drill rotates in the other. Therefore all the tools for use in space were power-operated from built-in nicad batteries. Internal flywheels spun in one direction to provide torque for tools rotating in the opposite direction. Adjustments were made by moving a sizeable lever, actuating a motor to make the adjustment.

Colonel Kuznekov took a wrench from the pack, very much unlike the crescent wrenches and open-end wrenches it replaced. The two adjustable jaws were motor driven and could be adjusted either to open or close, or to stop at an exact preset measurement on the scale.

“What are you going to do with that?” Patrick asked.

“It will be obvious in a moment. The torch now, if you please. I think the tanks would be best clipped to my back where they will not be in the way.”

The twin tanks were easily secured in place by Patrick, with the flexible hoses passed over the Colonel's shoulders to the pistol grip of the burning head he held in his hand. A large trigger turned on the gas flow and when he touched the ignition button on top the nicad batteries produced a fat spark that ignited the oxygen-acetylene mixture. A lever next to the button adjusted the mixture to a long needle of fire.

“Step one,” Kuznekov said. “Now, Patrick, if you will just hold this burning torch for a moment, if you please, pointed well away.”

The Colonel stopped speaking and began to inhale, slowly and deeply, filling his lungs with oxygen, hyperventilating, getting the maximum amount of oxygen into his bloodstream that was possible. Through his faceplate, Patrick could see him nod and smile when he had enough. With a swift motion he raised the power wrench close to his chest and clamped it over the umbilicals, actuating the mechanism at the same time. With geared-down strength the jaws closed, tighter and tighter, clamping down on the electrical and intercom cables, squashing flat the flexible hose of his air supply, until it was clamped shut completely.

“No air flow,” Kuznekov whispered, conserving his breath. “Torch.”

He took the burning torch from Patrick's hand. With a single pass he severed the umbilicals, leaving the stump with the attached wrench dangling from his suit.

Then he turned off the torch, waved his hand in farewell, and hauled himself over the bottom of Prometheus with a firm grip on a metal stanchion.

“What is happening?” The voice sounded in Patrick's earphones and he realized that the others could have no idea of what was going on.

“Colonel Kuznekov is going to cut the bolt. He clamped the wrench on his oxygen hose so it wouldn't leak into space, then cut the umbilicals with the torch.” He wasn't thinking clearly, Patrick realized. The severed umbilical was writhing in space like a garden hose. But instead of spouting water it was sending out a shower of frozen crystals.

“Nadya,” he called out. “Turn off the Colonel's air at the wall valve. It's just-being pumped into space.”

“It is off,” she said, and the shining spray slowed and died. “What is happening now?”

“He's halfway there. It's slow going through that maze of hardware without a safety line — watch out!”

Patrick shouted the last, forgetting that the Colonel was out of communication with his umbilicals severed. Kuznekov was fighting against time, taking chances that, as an experienced space walker, he would never normally consider. He must take them now. The last yards to the bolt were across a bare patch of metal. Up until now he had been moving steadily from handhold to handhold. Now he gauged the distance — and launched himself towards his objective, floating free in space.

But he could not see what Patrick could. The bulk of the tanks on his back was in line with one of the extended jacks, aiming directly for it. Patrick could only watch, horrified, as Kuznekov drifted forward, his hand extended to grab the length of the unexploded bolt.

His tanks struck first and he cart-wheeled in space, missing the bolt completely. The force of the impact swung his booted feet in the opposite direction, slamming them into the base of Prometheus. As they hit and rebounded the Colonel grasped at the bolt, but could not touch it.