Until, with a shock, he caught himself. There still was no promise of rescue. In his mind, the fifteen-day period he had estimated as the limit of the time he could keep Andrew alive had evolved into an article of faith. If we last out fifteen days we’ll be okay.
What grounds did he have for believing that? On the contrary, he realized, now that eleven, twelve, thirteen days had leaked away, their chances of being saved were less, not more. Even if Magnusson had been notoriously sloppy about routine matters such as signalling to the port he was bound for when his ship broached normal from subspace, they should have started searching long ago . . . if any detector had picked the Pennyroyal up.
It followed that Magnusson hadn’t signalled. They could have been eclipsed behind this damned desert planet when they emerged from faster-than-light mode, in which case detectors orbiting Carteret would not have recorded a blip. And their plight was hopeless after all!
The vision of the EWO shut in the cupboard rose before him and sang an inaudible song of mockery.
Weakened by his efforts, and short oxygen and barely sufficient food, he had taken to spending an hour or two each day between exhaustion and slumber in conversation with Andrew. The first few times had been a sort of stimulant for him; he had never had any clear conception of what life was like for someone who was due to inherit one of the great fortunes of the galaxy, coming as he did from average, ordinary stock on both sides of his own family: pioneers five generations back, who seemed to have used up their lines’ ambition and initiative in the single crucial act of leaving Earth, and never regained it.
He himself, by deciding to sign as a space medical officer before settling to a regular career, and moreover saying that it might not be on his home world of Caliban that he chose to practice, had shocked all his relatives. They weren’t geared to star-travel any more. By contrast, Andrew’s background since he was born had included the concept of galaxy-roaming: “Uncle Herbert is on Halys and sends his love,” or maybe, “I think we’ll take the kids to Peristar this year.”
Not that Andrew himself had appreciated his good fortune until now. He had looked on it rather as a distasteful duty than a reason for excitement and enjoyment when he was instructed to go tour the family holdings.
Now, listening to Pavel explaining his attitude, he seemed to have come around to the view that he’d been stupid, wasting an opportunity thousands, millions of young men would have sold their right arms for. Head constantly aching, unceasingly shaky on his feet and having to concentrate with all his force like a man struggling to pretend he isn’t drunk, Pavel had done his best to encourage Andrew . . . until the evening of the day when he admitted to himself that even if they did last out for the two weeks he’d invented as a deadline they were probably doomed anyhow.
Then, he was snappish and ill-tempered, heard his own voice reviving accusations from the Pennyroyal’s last voyage—references to Hans, references to drunkenness, references to laziness and greed and lack of consideration for other passengers. Hurt, at first surprised, later angry, Andrew retorted in kind, and the should-have-been friendly chat wound up with a grinding slam of the cabin door.
But the last thing Pavel had glimpsed as it shut was not just one more red light—he’d grown accustomed to one a day, on average, added to the original total—but a whole new cluster of them, which yesterday had been green.
Shaking from head to foot, he waited in the corridor for as long as it took to calm himself. Then he reopened the door.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m ashamed of myself. You’re in terrible pain. The lights. . .” He gestured at them. They were naturally turned away from the patient, so he shouldn’t see them.
“I know,” Andrew muttered.
“What?”
“Of course I know!” With renewed anger. “That machine of yours wasn’t designed to be used in a completely dark room, but a hospital ward with twilight oozing out of the walls—right? Every night when you switch off the lamp for me to go to sleep, I can see the light reflected over there”—gesturing—“and I can tell that it’s more red than it was before. I know I’m in a bad way, for heaven’s sake! I know!”
The last word peaked into a cry.
Pavel bit his lip. He said, “I guess I haven’t been completely honest with you. I. . . well, I no longer believe in being rescued. If we were going to be rescued it ought to have happened by now. Do you want me to—?”
“Switch on the EWO?” Andrew broke in. “No! No! And no again! You were right to take it away from me. Lying here, pain or no pain, I’ve come to realize how precious life can be. No, I don’t want you to use it. Take it out and bury it—smash it with a hammer—anything!”
But his voice cracked with pain, and sweat glistened on his skin.
“Well—uh—all right then,” Pavel said. “Uh—good night.”
“Good night.”
Pavel dreamed about the EWO again.
And then, in the morning, the nightmares didn’t stop.
When he opened the cabin door, having slept badly and twice having had to force himself to stay awake for ten or fifteen minutes so that when he dropped off again he would not drift straight back into the horrors he had fought to free himself from, he found Andrew not just asleep but unconscious. All but four of the lights on the medical equipment had gone to red. A glance at their pattern confirmed that it was the struggle to resist pain which had worn him out—that, and the exhaustion of the last phial of nutrient solution in Pavel’s limited stock. There was enough water left to keep him hydrated, and enough
