and the slow climb to the surface of Mercury began. Duke watched for leaks; none. He adjusted the screen to cut down the sun’s glare…and then he was out on the surface and being loaded onto the catapult for launching.
He waited, mentally preparing himself; try to relax but stay alert. A smooth voice said, “Five seconds and counting: one, two, three, four.…”
Gees squashed him into his seat. Then he was high in a sky filled with a blinding glare and orbiting. The screen showed a fissured and cratered surface below, baked to bare rock and dust.
He had no harvester to pick up this trip; speed was everything.
Other eggs came up to join him in orbit; bright blue, yellow, green, purple, up from the rift where humans existed in sealed chambers; only skimmers flew nearer the sun.
He watched his instruments. There was a satisfactory intake from the sun’s outpouring, fuel aboard and being compressed. Still no warning from officialdom so the race was on.
He psyched himself up to win. This was the big one he was gambling on; he had to be first back or he had no future. Bull was right; he was getting old, and had a lot of competition for his Number One slot, young idiots who would take any risk. Well, he had the advantage of experience.
Suddenly, against the blinding brilliance of the sun, a dark cloud blossomed: the starting signal. Duke engaged smoothly and jetted off for the race around the sun.
He jockeyed for position, watching instruments, studying his darkened screen, keeping an eye on the other ships. Speed built up as the ship scooped in more fuel and headed for the sun. A first-timer set the pace and Duke fell in behind him, using his egg as a shield against heat and radiation as yellowish-orange light filled the screen.
The sun’s gravity drew him on, faster and faster, and it was only his jet fuel that enabled him to guide his ship into the orbit he wanted. His onboard computer calculated the time he could spend in the corona with the temperature steadily rising.
He was losing body water, his throat drying out. The outer ceramic shell burnt away, offering up the next layer. The screen dimmed again as the glare increased; he was aiming directly at a huge ball of burning gases, gases under great pressure, with a nuclear heart.
The speed was exhilarating. Normally, while working, he’d have a harvester in tow, a bulky container collecting rare gases as he skimmed the sun’s surface. A repetitious job, boring. The annual race had started unofficially, then had caught on with the gambling crowd and been promoted to the status of big business.
His screen showed a magnetic storm raging below him with flares reaching high. He swerved aside to head for the nearest dark spot, intending to dive for the chromo-sphere where the temperature was lower. His refrigerator had reached its limit.
Then Bull cut in front of him. It was a deliberate tactic. By directing the exhaust from his ship, the younger skimmer intended to confuse Duke’s instruments; it might have worked with a less experienced pilot.
“Hell and damnation!”
Duke struggled to keep his fury under control. It was a dangerous tactic, one that put him at risk, but if Bull intended to pull out all stops that was something two could do.
He dived, picking up energy and speed, and came up directly in front of Bull’s egg to give him a dose of his own maneuver. He was feeling bitter about the attack and stayed in front a fraction longer than necessary to make sure Bull had no chance to beat him. He had to win and was determined to make sure he did.
Blinded, Bull tried to break away. His ship jumped erratically and Duke imagined his panic; his challenger veered out of control and disappeared from the screen.
Duke suppressed a twinge of guilt: Bull had sure as hell asked for it. His jaw set hard and he sucked on the glucose tube.
He put his nose down again, listening to the howl of the jet. The screen showed only flames and the intense white spots he had to avoid.
Now he was betting his life, for the deeper he went the greater the pressure on his ship’s hull; if that cracked, he had no chance. Another layer of ceramic burned away. The heat in the cockpit rose. He knew he was getting too much radiation when his skin began to itch, but he held steady to his master plan: he was gambling on a gravity slingshot to get him home first.
He concentrated on his instruments, guiding the ship into the orbit he needed. Vibration threatened to shake his seat loose. The heat increased and his pressure gauge showed he was past the safety mark and into the red. He waited, watching. Praying…and then shut off his jet.
Gravity flung him out of the sun’s atmosphere at high speed…much too high. Unless he shed the excess he would travel far beyond Mercury.
He flipped the egg end over end and used his jet as a brake. Still too fast to make a landing, but he had the right trajectory. He reprogrammed his computer for one orbit of the planet, calculating he could use that time to continue braking.
He was losing speed, cooling gradually to something more bearable, but his skin itched like fury. Far too much radiation. The egg was dropping at the end of its orbit; lower and lower, coming in to land, and he was still ahead of the pack!
He began to relax, and settled into his final glide path for touchdown.
When he grounded, carving a new furrow and turning rock to dust, suited mechanics surrounded him and maneuvered his egg into the elevator. There was no cheering from this crew; their job was hard work, dealing with one ship after another as each landed.
Duke tried to shrug off the effect of high gees on the way down in the elevator. He was both sweating and dried out, shaking from reaction. The last time, he told himself; he’d finished with tempting death.
The cage reached the bottom of the shaft. Living quarters extended through side tunnels in the rock, each with its own airlock. TV cameras watched as the egg was eased into a decon and sluiced down.
Now came the part he didn’t like, the part all skimmers hated. Duke was hauled out and pushed through his own personal decon, where spy-eyes did not reach; a hero should keep his secrets.
He was peeled from his suit, to reveal red-raw tenderized flesh and sluiced down, sprayed with soothing and scented ointments. A medic squirted drops into his eyes. He suffered a blood change and a marrow transplant. This was routine for an adapted man.
And the last time, he thought gratefully.
Dressed by skilled hands and helped along a short tunnel to the arena and the victor’s podium, weak and shaky, he was propped up before the crowd.
“The winner…Duke Halliday, in record time!”
The applause was muted at first, and he heard murmurs behind him. “Bull didn’t make it back…he may have hit a big meteor…someone said he deflected it.”
A chant began, “Duke, Duke!” Once started, the sound swelled to fill the arena and he knew it was going to be all right. Bull was forgotten.
Groupies screamed approval, trying for his attention; he could have his choice of any of them, but his gaze sought out Kate talking excitedly into a microphone to millions of viewers all over the solar system, though it would be hours or days before her voice and image reached some isolated colonies.
As she swayed on long legs, he raised his arm and pointed. “Kate Pilgrim.”
Stunned disbelief almost silenced the crowd. No skimmer chose any girl other than a groupie, and the younger the better. It had to be a joke; a few people laughed nervously. Some groupies started to boo.
TV eyes closed in on Kate, frozen in surprise. This was an offer she’d not anticipated and she struggled with the idea. An adapted man? How would Three Planets Video react to their star newscaster behaving like a groupie? Would she have a job anymore? She shrugged, and accepted the experience of a lifetime with a smile. The arena rocked to wild cheers.
The crowd stared at Duke as he exited the arena with Kate on their way to the victor’s bedchamber. She had