"Can you see Osborne?"

"Yeah, and he's not doing too good. There's blood all over the side of his head, I can actually see a dent."

"And he still won't let you in?"

An exasperated silence followed the question. It was the third time in as many minutes that Ferguson, circling serenely overhead in the main ship, felt it necessary to state the problem in it's basic form, to Buckman, who was on the surface of Tetyths; a moon made of ammonia snow and piles of sulphur. Buckman was wearing a suit he never expected to be wearing, trying to solve a problem nobody dared imagine just eighteen months ago, when the trip to Saturn was launched. All the sudden, everything he did was a matter of life and death. After the unexpected quake, only Buckman, of those on the surface, remained uninjured; and so he was the one doing all the hard stuff. Doing all the dangerous stuff. He was beginning to get annoyed.

"Can't you force the door..? Ferguson demanded, "...break the glass?"

"Break the glass???" Buckman laughed. It was a sardonic laugh. "It's Lexan. It's an inch thick. Even if I had a 44 magnum I couldn't get in."

"Does the equipment look damaged?"

"The whole outside shutter is torn off, the antennae array is down, some of it piled up on the roof, I'm surprised his radio is still working."

"Thank god it IS working, or Osborne wouldn't be talking to us at all. But screw the shutter and antennae... what does it look like inside?"

"I'm right at the window now and inside it's a mess. The main panel is torn loose from the floor... bent in the middle... hunched up like a cat in a fight... I just hope all the wires aren't pulled loose. The whole inside ceiling is down, covering up most of the working area. It looks like a forest of folding tables all piled on each other face down. The only light on, is a small one hanging by a chain. One of the ceiling panels might be what hit Osborne... hard to say. The fuel pumps are another matter, won't know a thing until somebody turns them on."

"Yeah... well... that's the thing ain't it."

McHenry joined the conversation. His voice was labored, the pain from his badly broken arm making him clip his sentences, "Just come back..." he said, "...to the ship... we'll figure... something out... from here."

Buckman looked across where McHenry was, back at the access ship, the pudgy round craft that was waiting patiently for him about a mile away. It was the contents of that mile that made Buckman sigh. The fueling station was big. It was nestled snugly in a small white valley. Dozens of man-made cylinders dotted the area. Deep well collectors and chemicals vats and pressurized storage containers were everywhere. Three separate piping systems criss-crossed the station, some of the pipes running off on delicate errands, threading their way over the nearby hill, disappearing lonely in the far distance.

Two major structures sat at the center of the valley. They made even the globe-shaped interplanetary spacecraft on the platform look tiny. They weren't only big, they were monstrous; indispensable... one contained liquid hydrogen and one contained liquid oxygen. The hydrogen container was pale blue in color; the oxygen container was painted rust red.

As Buckman looked back over the valley he couldn't help categorizing the damage. Pipes were down, wires were throwing sparks. One of the docking platforms was flat; the iron twisted into left-handed curvatures and right angled pleats. He had no good explanation for why the platform next to the one their ship was on was crushed, and the one their ship was resting on, was still standing. He told himself, if he lived, he'd examine that more carefully.

"Look Ferguson. I'm heading back, but you stay on Osborne. Keep talking to him. Don't let him drift off. Find out what he wants. Maybe there's a way we can trick him into turning something on."

"Right. I'm on it."

Buckman started back. It was hard going. He had to climb unsteady structures, and avoid wires that were jumping and sparking and filling areas with high voltages; and he had to keep his feet off the spilled chemicals... had to watch for cables stretched too tight... or beams about to let go under the strain. He had to be careful. He didn't want to die like Tanner.

Tanner had been outside when the quake hit. Tanner was the strongest of them all; a body-builder back on Earth. He was the one who kept at his exercises on the long space voyage. He was the best suited of them all, for trouble, or hard work, or the stress of an emergency. It was amazing then, that he didn't even live past the first minute of the planet's swift shaking. When the quake hit a mechanism failed. When the quake hit a rod snapped. The rod was connected to a large storage tank; connected by a universal joint. The rod snapped and the joint spun round... and the metal snipped Tanner right down the middle... like a lobster split wide and served on a golden plate. It wasn't only the spray of blood and the awful mess of Tanner's ruin spilling out from the halves of his divided suit that distressed those watching... and they could all see him out there... when the quake hit the TV monitors were still on... the TV monitors riding out the first big wave, only dying to a white dot in the first aftershock. So they could all see Tanner. Tanner split in two. And the horror of it was, watching him, watching him in the first few seconds. Watching him as he grew to realize he'd been cut in two. Cut like an apple cut. Cut in two.

Tanner wrapped his arms around himself. In a big bear hug he wrapped his arms around himself; and tried to keep his two pieces together. And he fell like that... holding himself like that... holding himself together... together until he hit the ground.

And they all remembered the sounds he made... made as he was falling... because he was trying to say something. Only his mouth was smashed and his tongue cleave. Funny word cleave... a word that can bring things together or tear them apart.

So Buckman was careful. Trying to be careful. There were puddles and rivers of liquid oxygen, and oceans and streams of liquid hydrogen; and his suit wasn't designed to handle either. His helmet fogged a couple of times; he had to wait while the cooling unit caught up. It was hard enough traveling; he wasn't going to attempt it with his vision impaired. It was thirty minutes later when he stood at the ship's ladder and started climbing.

When he got inside McHenry gave him the news.

"What's happening with Osborne?"

"He's not doing too well."

"No kidding."

"He talks crazy. He keeps asking if we like fountain drinks. He says he wants to put hot dogs on the carousal only he can't find the carousal."

"You ain't serious..."

"No really... Osborne thinks he's working at a gas station. McHenry looked at his bio on laser disk. Osborne used to work as a station attendant. He used to work at a station in Billings, North Dakota. That bump on his head knocked twenty years right out of his cranium. He says he needs to see your station card before he'll let you in."

"Do we have a cutting torch or something to blast our way in?"

"No. And we don't have a lot of time... every time I call him, he takes longer to answer and he keeps saying less and less."

They looked for and found a piece of clean plastic. They cut the plastic until it fit in the palm of Buckman's hand. They put numbers on the bottom edge and drew a scallop shell in the center with the fan end of the shell pointing up.

"When you get there have him call Ferguson. Ferguson has him convinced that he's the credit card company. Ferguson will authorize the purchase. And there isn't much time. Both the big tanks are losing volume. It doesn't matter which one gets too low first; if we don't get enough of either component we're stuck out here. It won't be pretty if we have to live where ammonia is a big part of our ecosystem. Once you get in, get the pumps started, then try to get Osborne off his feet. You'll have time to get him bandaged and into his suit and then head back. We'll just let the rest of the fuel run off, it won't last in the tanks anyway."

"Okay. Got it. Help me get ready." He picked up his helmet. "Once I'm in the suit tape the card to my glove. I don't want to drop it."

He started back, this his third trip across the damaged installation. He could feel the fatigue beginning to weigh him down. The pools of fuel percolating on the ground were growing bigger. He was forced to detour a dozen times. He walked past Tanner one last time. After half an hour he was near the shack.

"You've talked to him?" Buckman asked.

"He's ready I think. He still thinks he's back in Billings, I guess he's waiting for somebody to drive down that two lane road and gas up. I don't know how long we have. Osborne keeps saying his headache is slowly going away. I think its Osborne who's going away."

Ferguson cut in. "This is the last trip Buck. The fuel is running out and draining onto the ground. If we don't get it pumped into the ship now we'll have to forget about sitting on the beach next year."

"I'm almost there." He crawled under a fat yellow pipe and walked up to the pumping station. The Lexan window was six foot wide and three foot tall. The entry door was immediately to the right of the window. Buckman pounded on the door then slid over to the window. He could see Osborne looking around. Eventually Osborne noticed him at the window.

"We're closed." Osborne said softly over the radio; his channel opened up by the switch he threw on the mis-shapen control panel.

"Osborne. It's me... Larry. Larry Buckman."

"The rest room is closed." Osborne whispered.

"Ozzy I'm here to get fuel. Just like you. You came out to get the pumps started, remember? Remember the earthquake?"

"Can't be an earthquake Larry. Earthquakes only happen on Earth."

"Yeah that's right. Ozzy. So open up. Can you..?"

"Okay."

Osborne picked up his helmet and passed by the window. Buckman got a good look at the injury. Important grey conclusions were oozing from the side of Osborne's head. It looked like cottage cheese and there was an awful lot of it.

Buckman waited a long time. "Will you open the door?"

Osborne reappeared at the window his helmet once again in his hands.

"I need to see some I.D. Larry." "Sure... sure... right here." He peeled the tape back freeing the plastic card and he pressed the card against the window.

McHenry's voice cut in. "What's happening?"

"I got it." Buckman said.

"We're out of time..." McHenry snapped, "...If this don't work we're screwed."

>From inside the locked fuel depot Osborne stared at the card for twenty seconds. Twenty long seconds. He nodded his head once losing a little more large curd consciousness and then he disappeared from the window.

Buckman could hear the door latches being slid back and any moment he expected the door to open.

And then. He heard the latches being slammed back into the closed position.

"What's happening?" Ferguson whispered.

"Wait." Buckman hissed. Osborne was back at the window his helmet off. Osborne was swaying... his eyes staring off in the far distance. Buckman knew Osborne was only minutes away from death.

"Larry." Osborne said.

"What?" Buckman answered.

"Show me the back of the card."

Buckman flipped it over and held it against the glass.

"Larry..." Osborne said, and Buckman watched as Osborne lowered himself to the floor. "...Larry... I can't let you in..." and Osborne stretched flat on the floor his hands up over his head while he surrendered. "I can't let you in, Larry... Your card ain't signed..."

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