Just as Andrew Howe's boot-cleaning ritual had developed out of necessity, so had his twice-daily inspection of all his salvage. The worry that one of his precious computer chips or invaluable instruments would be a delicacy to an alien bacteria and deteriorate in the damp of the bunker made him scrupulous in his caution.
After his second pair of boots had dissolved into slime, Andrew had taken a second, careful inventory of the remaining salvage, noting any corrosion and carefully spraying preservative on everything that showed even the slightest hint of vulnerability. It didn't take more than the prospect of slogging barefoot in the swampy muck aboveground to convince the Lt. Commander of the absolute imperative of cleanliness.
Every day after sunset, Andrew thoroughly sterilized his entire wardrobe and carefully laved his body in the patched-together hypersonic shower he had managed to salvage from his 'boat. His deepest fear was that one of the local bacteria would acquire a taste for human tissue and he'd awaken one morning without digits. The mere thought kept him astonishingly religious about his cleaning rituals.
The supply of solvents and lubricants salvaged from the wreck of the Ursine Ensign was being diminished rapidly by the frequent cleanings of person and gear necessitated by corrosive native bacteria. His anxiety over becoming a meal for one of the large carnivores he had encountered in the nearby jungle, the constant salvage effort, the trail building, all were making him weary in mind and body. Being an alien on this planet was a constant chore; and after six weeks, mere survival had become a constant bore.
And, while he hadn't given up totally on his chances of rescue, Andrew was fairly certain that he would be on Abandon for a long time.
The decision came naturally. He was in the Exploratory Service; he would do some exploring. Perhaps a stretch of his legs would remind him of his duty; maybe some of the field stuff he learned while earning his degree in geology at the University of Colorado would come back to him. And there was always the chance that he'd find something to help him escape the confines of Abandon's gravity well.
But simply setting off into the jungle would be stupid and dangerous; first he would have to determine the most likely direction of travel. He knew that westward was open water; building a boat was a possibility. Due east was a range of low mountains; crossing would probably be difficult, although they would offer the best view of the surrounding country. Northward or Southward along the coast were both feasible, if he could find a good route.
He wished more of his planetary survey data had survived intact after the crash; his pocket desk was unable to decipher enough of the scrambled information tucked away within the bowels of his main computer to really help him plan his journeyings.
To compensate, he began to set up a package of instruments to dangle from a hot air balloon. The modular components of his 'boat had been designed for this sort of contingency; in a few minutes he could snap together a complete sensor array with standardized parts using only a few simple tools. He included the standard complement of simple meters: altimeter, compass, barometer, spectrometer, a simple mono-lens video camera and various other odments.
The balloon instruments were to survey the territory around him and give him an idea about where to start his explorations. The hard part would be making the balloon.
When Surveyboat Pilot Lieutenant Commander Andrew Howe was anonymous Cadet Howe at the Exploratory Service Academy his instructors had impressed upon him the importance of knowing and understanding all of his equipment. His first year at the Academy had been the usual blur of drill and recitation of codes, regurgitating the dogma of the professors without question, until his flight instructor announced that simulations were over and the class would actually be given an opportunity to pilot the cadet launch at the next session.
The cadet launch was a small, orbit-to-orbit shuttle. The Academy, in Jovian orbit, needed a small craft to ferry cadets and dignitaries to and from the other planets in Solar orbit. Except between quarters, when the shuttle was turned into an Earthbound ferry, it was used primarily to instruct cadets in flight operations. Most of the pilots in the Exploratory Service had experienced their first hours at the controls of a spacecraft at the helm of the cadet shuttle or its predecessor vessels.
And now it was Cadet Howe's turn.
His assignment was to pilot the launch out to a marker buoy, reduce throttle to zero, turn the vessel around and return to the academy. It was not a terribly difficult task. Except he'd never done it before outside the simulators.
His instructor sat in the co-pilot's chair, reviewing a checklist with one eye and keeping the other firmly locked on Andrew's nervous piloting. The rest of his class were strapped into their various seats in the passenger compartment as Howe released the docking clamps from the Academy yard and nudged the throttle. The primitive inertial thrusters of the shuttle pushed the craft forward without the press of acceleration more powerful boosters provided.
"Now remember," intoned his instructor, "You've got fifteen passengers back there. Making them feel comfortable is part of the training, too. Tell them what you're doing."
Andrew's palms started to sweat. He opened the intercom channel in his headset. "Uh, this is Cadet Howe. We're now leaving dock. Please remain seated."
"Very good," said the instructor. "Next time, tell them before you start."
The shuttle's speed slowly crept up to cruising velocity; the marker buoy was five thousand kilometers out from the Academy dock. At four thousand, three-hundred sixteen kilometers out red lights started flashing all over Andrew's board.
"You have a serious problem, Cadet," his instructor pronounced. "Do you want me to take the controls?"
"N-no, sir!" said Howe. "I can handle this, sir. Just give me a moment." Andrew's fingers slipped over the keypad as he switched system after system to backup.
Several of the lights returned to green before the instructor said, "Cadet, you have passed the buoy and are off course. Do you want me to take the controls?"
"Sir, I've almost got the problem locked down. I'll return us to course in a moment."
"Cadet, may I point out that you are about to wander into shipping channels and will become a hazard to navigation? You cannot allow the shuttle to simply keep going while you solve a problem at your leisure. Perhaps you should notify traffic control of your predicament so as to avoid a collision."
"Yes, sir," responded Howe as he toggled on his communications. "Academy Shuttle Prometheus to Control. We are, ah, experiencing general failure of main, um, control systems. Please alert traffic in this area of our location." Pounding frenetically on the remaining controls, Howe gradually returned the shuttle to his rein.
"Cadet," bellowed the instructor after a few moments, "you've not received acknowledgement from Control. Are you certain they've received your message?" He glowered at Howe and pointed emphatically at the sensor display. "Another vessel's approaching us on a collision vector. If we don't get out of the way, both craft are likely to be destroyed."
Howe swallowed reflexively as he juggled the conflicting demands of instructor and shuttle. "Sir, I would appreciate your assistance in contacting Control. Will you kindly handle communications for me while I manoeuver the shuttle back on course?"
The instructor snatched the comm instantly. "Prometheus to Control. We are off course. Repeat, off course. Warn all other traffic. Please respond, over." Static poured out of the cabin speaker in return. "This is Prometheus. Please respond, over."
Meanwhile, Andrew struggled with the controls a moment longer, finally turning the nose of the launch back toward the Academy -- and removing the immediate danger of collision.
"I think communications are down," said the instructor. "We'll have to improvise. Any ideas, Cadet?"
Howe's brain froze. He had no idea how to handle this kind of situation. The thought of docking the shuttle while out of communication with Academy yard made his feet itch; a drop of sweat tickled his nose as it waited to drop to the control board. Howe cut the thrusters. "Sir, I'm not prepared for this," he said. "Is this part of the test today?"
His instructor's face lengthened even more, eyes narrowing. "Thank you for your candor. No, Cadet, this isn't part of the test. I've never known this level of systems failure to occur on a training jaunt. Now, I need you to think while I attempt to restore communications. While I'm working on that, please hold our position. I think you're prepared to handle that much. Oh, and tell your passengers what's going on. yes"> Thanks."
"Uh, this is Howe. We're experiencing some technical difficulties in the cockpit and will be delayed. In the meantime, please remain in your seats. Thank you."
Andrew nudged the forward thruster throttle just enough to slow the shuttle to a relative crawl. The instrumentation winked annoyingly at him as he launched a general diagnostic to pinpoint the fault. His screen flashed a series of hieroglyphics at him as the program searched the serpentine data paths of the main computer and the minute convolutions of the control board wiring.
"Control," his instructor was repeating, "this is Prometheus. Please respond." There was still no answer after four minutes. When all the cockpit lights went out.
And all the cabin lights. The hiss of the ventilation system, normally inaudibly familiar, was missing like a kidnapped child. Still, the vibration of the main engine gently shook the deckplates.
But the control panel was black.
From the passenger cabin Howe could hear the rising murmmur of panicky cadets. The instructor bellowed over his shoulder, "Everyone remain seated. Cadet Howe and I are in control of the situation. Please remain calm."
Cadet Howe was not remaining calm. The sweat beading on his forehead had begun to run down into his eyes, and Howe wiped away the stinging droplets with the back of one weak hand. "Sir," he whispered, "I'm not sure I know how to handle this."
"Neither am I, Cadet," he responded, "but I'm not ready to die less than five thousand klicks from a base." The pale starlight glimmering in through the viewport revealed the flat grin on his instructor's face. "And I'm not going to let you die, either. Focus on your training. You can do that. Just focus."
"Right," said Howe, "focus."
"The first thing we're going to do is pop this panel off," his instructor continued, reaching under the lip of the fascia. "And," he yanked hard on the underside, "see if we can go in manually. The control surfaces flew up and rebounded from the bulkhead over their heads. A maze of fiber optics connecting silcon nodes flopped like wet spaghetti from the opened console.
His instructor reached in with his left hand and removed three chips from their sockets. "Cadet, I'm removing the main control processors. I want you to go back," he waved toward the rear of the main cabin behind them, "and pull out the corresponding chips from the drive interface." He looked carefully at Howe. "Can you do that?"
"Y-yes, sir!"
"Good. Get moving."
Howe flung his restraints aside, throwing himself into the slowly rotating cover floating over their heads. Wincing, he pulled himself through the narrow hatch into the main cabin and launched himself through the air toward the stern.
He tried to ignore the worried glances his crewmates threw at him.
narrow avoidance of collision with outgoing 'boat. docking procedure with lights as communication. applause from shipmates.
He prepared a packload of gear to carry with him. A bedroll, forceblade, flaregun, compass, bug netting, tent, shovel, rations, the list became long and the goods became heavy. Howe knew that these items would not be used until he had decided where he was going, but he felt better about having them ready. When the time came to move, he could leave his base within a half hour.