Collision Orbit by Clyde Beck

There’s one good thing about a blowout. You don’t need a mechanic to tell you what the trouble is when it happens. This was the first blowout I ever had, but as soon as I heard that explosive pinging whistle and felt the floppy jolting and the terrifying sensation of a vehicle out of control, I knew what was wrong. I reached forward and cut the power.

When I leaned back in my seat I was sweating and my stomach was pushing my tonsils around, and not only on account of the sudden switch from one and a half G’s to free fall. I was in a jam, and I didn’t need a mechanic to tell me that, either. Spaceships don’t carry spare drive tubes.

Not little wagons like the Aspera, anyway. If you could get a spare inside the hull you would have to leave out the air plant or the groceries or else stay home yourself, and even then there would be no room for the tools to make the change. Retubing is a dock job, and the nearest docks were a million miles away on Phobos and getting farther fast.

And besides, you never need a spare. Tubes don’t blow in space. Diamondized graphite is tough—you caliper the throat every time you dock, and after a few thousand G-hours you find enough erosion to cut down efficiency to the point where it’s a good idea to put in a new liner.

I knew all this, but at the same time I knew the main tube had blown. What I didn’t know was what I was going to do about it. I lit a cigarette and took a deep drag, just in case the stimulating effect of the quabba smoke would give me an inspiration.