in no hurry. At that point, she would have arrived with appropriate staff and the necessary equipment for making a thorough examination of their prize.
Normally. But nothing had been normal since Perry Rhodan had come onboard the Palenque. Sharita had known this would happen. She had protested vigorously against taking on the famous passenger, but the owners had stubbornly refused to listen: Rhodan would be on the Palenque; they left it to her discretion whether to join him there.
As if she could abandon the rewards of her decades of effort just like that! If Rhodan had turned up only a year or two later, she might have stuck to her guns. But ... maybe it wouldn't be as bad as she imagined, she had told herself.
She felt Rhodan's gaze on her everywhere: in the control center, here in the hangar, even in her own cabin. Rhodan's gaze measured her, tested her—and she couldn't rid herself of the feeling that he found her lacking. Not leadership material.
Sharita shook off these thoughts and focused on the wreck. It was covered with a layer of ice crystals like a thin coating of snow: the moisture in the air of the hangar had condensed on the cold metal. She laid a hand on the hull and felt the cold slam into her through her uniform glove.
"Be careful," said Rhodan, who had remained several steps behind her. "Whatever they used to build this doesn't seem to tolerate temperature differences very well."
"So I see."
From the corner of her eye Sharita saw movement. She threw herself backwards. A metal strut hissed past her head. Rhodan was at her side almost instantly. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, I'm fine." Sharita shook off his hand, angry at herself for appearing so careless and angrier at Rhodan. Did he always have to be right? And worse, play the rescuing knight who rushed to help her without a word of reproach?
Sharita stood, smoothed her uniform, and refastened the collar. The fabric felt like a clamp around her neck. It held her upright, which was good.
She walked slowly around the wreck. On the narrow side, which she assumed was the forward end, bulged a facetted dome that reminded her of an insect's eye. A second dome had burst. Sharita peered inside, but the slushy ice coated everything. Below the bow protruded an ice-covered projection. An antenna? No—it was too short and too thick for that purpose.
She continued around to the rear of the wreck, where she faced a tangle of blasted metal. Using both hands, she grasped one of the struts sticking out of the mass—practically daring Rhodan to make a comment—and pulled at it with all her strength. There was a cracking noise and pieces of ice fell, but the strut wouldn't come loose, and couldn't be used as a lever.
Rhodan said nothing.
"Piece of junk," Sharita murmured in the direction of the wreck. "Give me a break here!"
She stepped back, pulling Rhodan along with her. She drew her beamer and aimed it at the wreck.
"Sharita, no!" Rhodan exclaimed.
Well, how about that, she thought. Sounded almost human. So you can lose your composure.
Sharita fired. A green, flickering beam bored into the wreck's hull in a circular pattern.
The metal groaned in protest. Sharita resisted the impulse to dive for cover: she was determined that Rhodan would have to acknowledge her courage. The sound of rapidly cooling metal died away, leaving only the occasional ping and pop of the expanding metal. A hole large enough to let a human pass now gaped in the hull of the wreck.
"You shouldn't have done that," Rhodan said.
Sharita holstered her beamer. She smiled grimly, the first time she'd managed that expression since Crawler Eleven disappeared. "Oh? And why not?"
"You could have set off an explosion!"
"But I didn't, did I?"
"No, but who knows what you destroyed! Maybe the only clue that could have given us information on the origin of this wreck. Why didn't you wait until—"
"Why, why, why?" Sharita mocked.
Because you make me nervous, Immortal! she thought. Because I feel you watching every step I take! Because I've got this crazy fear that you're comparing me to every commander you've ever flown with, and you're writing me off as an amateur. That's why.
"Because I'm not some goddamned archaeologist. I'm just the commander of a prospecting ship," she said aloud. "Do you understand what that means? I don't have a flock of robots and scientists at my side giving me advice and getting their hands dirty for me and planning and documenting everything step by step. I don't have a fleet I can just call, and half an hour later a squadron of battleships filled with trained specialists will come flying up. I've only got this"—she tapped the side of her head—"and this!" She tapped the grip of her beamer. "And do you know what? They've never let me down."
Giving Rhodan no chance to answer, Sharita set her left foot on a projecting strut, tested her weight on it and then climbed inside the wreck. Darkness enveloped her. She switched on her picosyn and used it as a makeshift flashlight. Rhodan, who had followed her without a word, was forced to rely on her for illumination: as a passenger on the Palenque, he had not been issued a picosyn for his own use, let alone a weapon. Sharita felt fiercely glad that he was dependent on her for as long as they were inside the wreck.
A landscape of ice awaited them, as if they were inside a cave. Sharita's breath came out in clouds of vapor. The crackling, clicking noises of warming metal now surrounded them.
The air temperature had to be well below zero. Sharita shivered, the uniform jacket in which she had been sweating all day now proving to be little protection against the cold. It had to be worse for Rhodan, who was wearing lightweight, casual clothes.
"Let's not waste time." Feeling slightly guilty for her petty anger at Rhodan, she was now determined to keep him from freezing. Her light provided enough illumination to search each room. The barrel of her beamer followed the light.
"Are you afraid that space monsters might be hiding in here, just waiting to pounce and eat us?" Rhodan asked.
Sharita ignored his remark. She felt safer with the beamer in her hand. That was what counted, not what Rhodan thought about it.
Sharita estimated that the ceiling was about ten or fifteen meters above them and was the inner surface of the exterior hull. They were in a large cargo hold or hangar.
What was it used to transport?
To their left and right, a ledge about a meter high ran along the walls that corresponded to the outer hull. A bench for passengers? Possibly. That would mean the wreck was a spacecraft designed for short flights, probably a shuttle. In that case, the wide, empty interior hold would be for planetary-surface vehicles or equipment containers.
But if the wreck really was part of a short-distance shuttle, Sharita asked herself, what was it doing in the Ochent Nebula, far from all galactic civilization? And racing along at near light-speed, to boot?
She and Rhodan reached the end of the hangar. Before them rose a wall that spanned the ship's entire width. The layer of ice hid from their view the hatch that must connect the cargo hold with the shuttle's bow.
Sharita extended her little finger on the hand holding the beamer and tapped the picosyn on the other wrist. A series of diagrams and schematics flashed rapidly across the tiny screen.
She gave a grunt of satisfaction, then aimed her beamer at a point about three meters to the right of where she stood. A wide green beam of energy melted several square meters of ice. When the steam dispersed and condensed somewhere else, Sharita could see a discolored metal surface.
No wonder, she thought. The builders of this shuttle never dreamed that its interior would be exposed to temperatures near absolute zero. The materials weren't up to the strain.
"Aha! There's our hatch!"
A rectangle of straight lines had appeared on the wall, wide enough to allow two people to walk through simultaneously.
Sharita