Analog SFF, June 2011 Read Online Free Page A

love?"
    "Not exactly.” A rueful laugh. “I'm making a still. Whether or not homebrew appeals to her, I figure it won't go to waste."
    "Does she know how you feel?” Gabe asked.
    "Not from me! Not yet. Frankly, the woman scares the crap out of me. Maybe that's why I have to have her."
    To their left, a ghostly plume: an ice pocket flashing to steam bursting from the ground.
    Behind its sunshield Phoebe should be colder than the night side of the moon: For two weeks out of four, every part of the moon but a few deep polar craters felt sunlight. But shield or no, some sunlight did reach Phoebe. No software was perfect, and occasionally the sunshield—tugged by Earth, Moon, and Phoebe, pushed by the solar wind and by sunlight itself, balancing the many conflicting forces with its own feeble thrusters—drifted out of position. Whenever that happened, sunlight beat directly on the surface. Even when the shield balanced perfectly, the traces of sunlight penetrating the shield scattered in unpredictable ways. Earthlight and moonlight were, in the final analysis, echoes of sunlight. And heat leaked from the underground base and its nuclear power plant. All that energy mingled, meandered, and reradiated in unpredictable ways.
    And so, seemingly at random, little geysers. The vapor was too diffuse to do any harm. Most times. If you were unlucky, a geyser could sweep you right off Phoebe.
    "A still,” Gabe repeated, his thoughts divided between the plume, already trailing off, the topo map on his HUD, the landscape sliding by inches beneath his visor, and the conversation. Ethyl alcohol boils at a lower temperature than water, so alcohol fumes waft up a still coil before water vapor. You separated out the early condensate. But up comes of having gravity. “Will a still even work in Phoebe's grav—"
    Too much happened at once, the sequence unclear:
    —A sharp tug on Gabe's backpack.
    —Thad saying, “Wrong answer."
    —A power alarm.
    —A second yank.
    —Helmet lights and HUD going dark.
    —A hard shove forward.
    Gabe twisted around. Earthlight showed Thad a good twenty feet away, receding. Just staring. And bulging from the mesh pouch of Thad's tool belt: two battery packs.
    Without power for his suit's heating elements, Gabe would freeze within minutes. Already the cold seeped into him, body and thoughts turning sluggish. He got his feet beneath him, even as he ripped lengths of tether from their reels. He leapt.
    His right foot slipped on loose gravel and he sailed far to the side.
    The shorter tether pulled him up short. Its yank started him spinning even as the tug started him back toward the surface. Too slowly. He took the maneuvering pistol from its holster—but it slipped from fingers already numb with cold. As he drifted down he managed to grip a rock outcropping.
    All the while, maintaining his distance, Thad watched. Stared.
    "Why?” Gabe screamed. Not that his radio worked without batteries. Not that his shout could cross the vacuum. “Why are you doing this?"
    Maybe his murderer read Gabe's lips. Whatever the reason, Thad shrugged.
    Gabe advanced. Thad retreated.
    As cold became all, as consciousness faded, the last thing Gabe saw was the waxing crescent Earth.
    * * * *
    Earth no longer seemed close enough to touch.
    "He just went nuts !” Thad said once more.
    With minor variations the words had become his mantra. First with Tiny, when he had called in from across Phoebe about the “accident.” Over and over with Bryce Lewis and Alan Childs after they joined Thad on the surface. And now hopefully for the last time, in the station's comm-gear-packed command center, with Lyman Hsu, the dour station chief.
    "Details, please.” Hsu rubbed his pencil-thin mustache as he spoke.
    Thad ignored the request. “You should have let me go with the other guys. You can't imagine what it was like.” I damn well hope you can't imagine it. He struggled to understand it.
    "You'd been outside long enough for one day. You