Wildcatter

Hanna took over. “The problem is that the weather cannot be predicted more than three hours in advance, at best, which isn’t long enough for your needs. Another strategy would be to launch to an unstable orbit that would take you down slowly, over two or three days. From there you could make a faster approach when the weather looked good.”

But if he missed out on all four targets, he’d have to use fuel to boost his orbit, which in turn meant he would have to return to Golden Hind to refuel, and Hind didn’t carry enough spare for him to start over. So then he’d be limited to the one-shot plan that he’d rejected earlier. His danger bonus would pop like a soap bubble.

“I don’t like it,” Jordan said. “He’d be sitting by himself in that barrel. Here at least he has company. He can eat properly and exercise. There’s no hurry. We can stay here for months if we have to.”

Seth was saved from having to decide right then by Control.

— Prospector, as requested, this is a four-hour forecast of…

Seth emptied his water glass and stood up. “Control, start loading shuttle fuel.” This time he would walk, not run. “Gotta go, friends.”

“Good luck!” Jordan called.

“We’re praying for you.” That was Hanna, of course.

“We’re betting on you.” That was JC.

* * *

He scrambled into the cab.

— Fuel loading, seventy percent complete.

— All hatches secured…

He knew it all by heart now; he could sing along if he wanted to. He tried not to watch the fuel gauge. Cacafuego was just rising over the edge of the ship’s disk, blue and white and patches of green. Very beautiful; very deadly. He hunted for Sombrero Island among the white loops and whirls. He was taken by surprise when a tone sounded and the screen flashed green text: Ready to launch.

Gulp.

“Niagara to Golden Hind. Request clearance to launch.”

“You are cleared to launch, Master.” Jordan.

“Bring me back a diamond.” That was Reese, with a joke that must be older than she was.

The START button lit up. Seth pushed it and was on his way.

Niagara rose gently and almost silently, just a slight vibration. Once clear of the ship, it turned to shed orbital velocity. He watched the edge of the disk go by, then the greater mass behind it, in the part they called the tower, the tokamak generators. He watched for signs of damage, but saw none and had not expected to.

In a few minutes he had left the ship behind and was floating over the planetscape of Cacafuego. He felt almost drunk with joy. He had achieved his life’s ambition, to go exploring in the Big Nothing. He could even cling to the illusion that he was alone, although the back of his mind knew that five people were watching his progress very carefully. He hoped-for their sakes almost more than his own-that they wouldn’t have to abandon him the way Commodore Madison Duddridge had deserted his people.

JC’s voice: “Commodore to Master. Don’t forget to plog. Gotta keep the kiddies happy. Commodore out.”

Seth muttered an obscenity. A plog was a prospector’s log, and a valuable part of the expedition record. The contract required him to record a commentary during EVA, and he ought to start now. Traditionally, the rights to the plog belonged to the person who made it, and there were many sly rumors of prospectors who had made more money out of their plogs than their employers had made out of the voyages.

He talked for a while about the view, his lifelong ambition to be a prospector, and the dangers of bad weather. He mentioned that Galactic had lost prospectors but was careful not to hint that they had been marooned. Then he signed off to prepare for landing. He fetched his EVA suit and left it handy. He put his two bags by the rear hatch, where he could kick them out.

“Control, report weather forecast for Site Apple.”

— Calm at estimated touchdown and for one hour thereafter.

“It seems that the weather window is narrowing,” he told his plog. “The ship’s computers cannot predict this planet’s weather more than an hour or two ahead. A strong gale would wreck this shuttle once it’s on the ground, and a Category One hurricane is a mild breeze by local standards. I need a clear two hours’ sampling. As soon as I land, therefore, I will send Niagara back to the mother ship to refuel…”

He was a private, self-contained person and hated this mindless, anonymous chatter.

* * *

He was eating a sandwich, which might be his last meal for a long time, when Control announced go-no-go point for an Apple descent. The decision was his, but out of courtesy he called home.

“Niagara to Golden Hind. You see any problems?”

Jordan’s face appeared in the viewer. “Negative. All looks clear to us for a landing and prompt take-off. Good luck, Master.”