The handle proved immovable, and Lando’s touch alone elicited no detectable response from the ship. But through his efforts, he realized that his bare hand was puffy, stiff, and aching—the pressure from the wrist collar was compounding the damage done by the decompression.
“Do we have any sample bags?” Lando asked, returning to where Lobot and the equipment sled floated.
“Yes. Six small, six large, and two capsules of freeform sheet gel.”
“The bags—they’re self-sealing, right?”
“Yes, Lando.” He paused. “I’m sorry—I don’t have any more information. Do amnesiacs know that there are things they cannot remember? If so, then I know how it feels to have amnesia. What I know best is making links and browsing for information. I do not seem to have much other expertise.”
“Save the self-examination for another time,” said Lando. “Grab one of those small sample bags and see if we can’t improvise a mitten for me.”
Before long, they managed to attach the mouth of the sample bag above the wrist lock for the missing gauntlet. By squeezing the locking pins, Lando was able to make the wrist cuff relax. Almost immediately the swelling in his fingers began to subside.
“I do not know if the bag or the adhesive is strong enough to withstand another depressurization,” said Lobot.
“I’m not counting on that,” Lando said. “I just don’t want to lose consumables, or the use of my hand.
The odds are bad enough already. Did you get anything out of Artoo’s data?”
“I believe I have our heading prior to the jump to within half a degree,” Lobot said, then rattled off the numbers. “I apologize for the imprecision.”
“That would put us on a course toward Sector One-Five-One,” Lando said.
“Yes. The boundary is eight light-years from our original position.”
“Is there anyone out in ‘Fifty-One who might be able to help us?”
“I’m sorry,” said Lobot. “Artoo has navigational data only. There is no geopolitical or sociological data.”
Lando nodded. “Stop apologizing for what you can’t give me. We haven’t the time to spare. How far is this road open?”
“The imprecision of the heading becomes more significant the farther out we look, of course,” said Lobot.
“The nearest body that is close enough to the center flight path and has a large enough gravity shadow to force a ship out of hyperspace is forty-one- point-five-three light-years away.”
Frowning, Lando said, “That doesn’t help me much. Turn the question around—how far to the spot along this flight path that’s the farthest from everything else?”
Lobot closed his eyes and concentrated. But the answer came from Artoo-Detoo as a long series of beeps and chirps.
“Artoo says that in twelve-point-nine light-years, this vessel will enter the most isolated region along this flight path,” Threepio offered. “At that point, there will be no charted bodies larger than a class five comet for nearly nine light-years in any direction.”
“Sounds like a good place to make a course change,” said Lando. “And far enough out to give us a little time to work with.”
“But we do not know how fast this vessel is capable of traveling in hyperspace,” Lobot pointed out. “That region could be twelve hours away, or eight, or six—or even fewer. The conventional upper limit on hyperspace velocity may be technological rather than theoretical.
And there’s something else—” “What?”
“If we do clear that gravity shadow forty-one light-years from here, we’ll be heading straight for the border of the New Republic, in the general direction of Phracas, in the Core.”
“All the more reason not to just stand around waiting,” said Lando.
“Artoo, what did you find?”
Artoo beeped, and Threepio translated. “Master Lando, Artoo says that there are no inflow vents anywhere in this chamber.”
“What? Then how was this chamber repressurized?”
“According to Artoo, the atmospheric gases are passing through the bulkheads molecule by molecule. He says that most of the surface area of the compartment is involved.”
“Let me get this straight—these bulkheads are porous?”
Artoo chittered, and Threepio offered the answer.
“No, Master Lando. Artoo says that molecules of gas simply appear on the surface.”
“Curious,” said Lobot. “I wonder if the bulkheads could be actually producing the gas.”
“Artoo, is there any area that’s more involved with this process than the rest?” asked Lando.