Destroyer of Worlds by E. C. Tubb Page B

would be the day. ‘I’m fine,’ he said again. ‘Now let’s quit worrying about me and get on with the job. Right?’
    ‘Maybe you should report back in?’
    ‘No!’
    ‘I think you should.’ The overseer’s voice held determination. ‘Get back inside the ship, Alan, and take it easy. That’s an order.’
    ‘You know what you can do with it?’
    ‘Now you listen —’
    ‘No! You listen! This is an emergency job, right? It needs to be done and fast — that’s what emergency means. Now you stick to your job and let me get on with mine.’ He added, grimly, ‘I mean it, Lang. Come near me and I’ll brain you and that goes for anyone else who thinks I’m getting past it.’
    A challenge and a stupid one, why had he given it? Would he really fight if anyone came close? Only an idiot would attempt to struggle outside on the hull of the Ad Astra when too many little things could cause a ruptured suit and burst lungs. But why the hell couldn’t they leave him alone?
    He sighed, rising to straighten his back, conscious of the ache, the drag of weary muscles. Damn the hospital and the doctors — he hadn’t felt right since they’d done that series of tests on him after Gordon had died. And that was another thing. Gordon shouldn’t have died. They should have looked after him. Gordon had been one of the best. He missed him.
    Irritably, Guthrie shook his head. What was the matter with him? Gordon was dead — so what? Everyone had to die and some had the luck to go early and others had to wait. What you lost one way you made up in another. Die young and you dodged the aches and pains of growing old, the failing of natural attributes, the growing inadequacy. Die old and you gained the extra joys of youth.
    Why was he thinking about dying when work waited to be done?
    Turning he looked around. Lang Ki had apparently given up and was saving further argument until they had finished their stint. A couple of others were in view both hard at work. Guthrie looked at the scanner he had carefully removed from the hull. It was oddly eroded, the lens scarred, the metal surround looking as if it had been abraded with something like an emery-blast. The replacement would be set with a new, wide angle lens fitted with a removable cover of transparent plastic.
    Setting aside his space welder, Guthrie crouched, fighting a sudden giddiness. He was an electronics man and a good one. Testing his work was a waste of time; each connection was firm, every terminal correct, and when he did a layout everything was as it should be. To him it was a matter of pride that it was.
    A small thing, perhaps, but important to both himself and to the mission.
    Now he swore as his gloved hands were slow to obey his mental commands. The wires fell, were recovered, failed to click home. He paused, squeezing shut his eyes before trying again. He was tired, a treble shift was enough to take it out of a giant, but working was better than waiting, and if he could do nothing else he could work.
    ‘Get in!’ he muttered. ‘Damn you, get in!’ Again the wires slipped. There was too little slack, the junctions were awkwardly placed, the connections too tight, the design a lousy combination of some nut-dreamer and a moronic engineer. Why the hell couldn’t they build stuff a man could use? ‘Get in! In!’
    He sighed with relief as the terminals clicked home. A tug to test, a check for fit and the scanner was back in its slot, aligned on its guides, ready to operate as it should.
    Chalk up one more success.
    His head reeled as he climbed to his feet, the exterior hull of the ship turning, twisting, heaving as if with a life of its own.
    ‘Alan!’ Ki had been watching. Sliding his magnetic boots carefully over the metal hull, he moved towards the distant Guthrie as he swayed. ‘Move in, Ken. Fast!’
    ‘Got it, Lang.’ Ken Wainwright lunged forward as fast as safety would allow. He was close when Guthrie began to fall, closer when he spun, to topple