SATELLITE PASSAGE
BY THEODORE L. THOMAS
It had to come sooner or later—the
perilous moment when Our satellite
crossed the orbit of Theirs....
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, October 1958.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The three men bent over the chart and once again computed the orbit. Itwas quiet in the satellite, a busy quiet broken by the click of seekingmicroswitches and the gentle purr of smooth-running motors. The deeppulsing throb of the air conditioner had stopped: the satellite was inthe Earth's shadow and there was no need for cooling the interior.
"Well," said Morgan, "it checks. We'll pass within fifty feet of theother satellite. Too close. Think we ought to move?"
Kaufman looked at him and did not speak. McNary glanced up and snorted.Morgan nodded. He said, "That's right. If there's any moving to bedone, let them do it." He felt a curious nascent emotion, a blendof anger and exhilaration—very faint now, just strong enough to berecognizable. The pencil snapped in his fingers, and he stared at it,and smiled.
Kaufman said, "Any way we can reline this a little? Fifty feet cuts itkind of close."
They were silent, and the murmuring of machinery filled the crampedroom. "How's this?" said McNary. "Wait till we see the other satellite,take a couple of readings on it, and compute the orbit again. We'd haveabout five minutes to make the calculations. Morgan here can do it inless than that. Then we'd know if we're on a collision course."
Morgan nodded. "We could do it that way." He studied the chart in frontof him. "The only thing, those boys on the other satellite will seewhat we're doing. They'll know we're afraid of a collision. They'llradio it down to Earth, and—you know the Russian mind—we'll loseface."
"That so bad?" asked Kaufman.
Morgan stared at the chart. He answered softly, "Yes, I think it is.The Russians will milk it dry if we make any move to get our satelliteout of the way of theirs. We can't do that to our people."
McNary nodded. Kaufman said, "Agree. Just wanted to throw it out. Westay put. We hit, we hit."
The other two looked at Kaufman. The abrupt dismissal of a seriousproblem was characteristic of the little astronomer; Kaufman wasted notime with second guesses. A decision made was a fact accomplished; itwas over.
Morgan glanced at McNary to see how he was taking it. McNary, now, bigas he was, was a worrier. He stood ready to change his mind at anytime, whenever some new alternative looked better. Only the soundnessof his judgment prevented his being putty in any strong hands. He was ameteorologist, and a good one.
"You know," said McNary, "I still can't quite believe it. Twosatellites, one pole-to-pole, the other equatorial, both having apogeesand perigees of different elevations—yet they wind up on what amountsto a collision course."
Morgan said, "That's what regression will do for you. But we haven'tgot any time for that; we've got to think this out. Let's see, they'llbe coming up from below us at passage. Can we make anything of that?"
There was silence while the three men considered it. Morgan's mind wasfocussed on the thing that was about to happen; but wisps of memoryintruded. Faintly he could hear the waves, smell the bite in the saltsea air. A man who had sailed a thirty-two-foot ketch alone into everycorner of the globe never thereafter quite lost the sound of the