Beyond that point. . .
Certain death.
Pavel stared in giddy disbelief. He tried to tell himself that it was an achievement to have kept Andrew alive and conscious, in his condition, for such a long time—not fifteen ordinary days, as he had somehow been fool enough to imagine, but fifteen of these extra-long local days. It was a medical miracle, in its small way. Hardly any modern doctor could have managed it without the aid of a full range of diagnostic and supportive equipment.
But what was the use of having done it, when nobody else would ever find out?
All hope seeped out of his mind. All his overstrained will to survive collapsed, like a bridge required to carry too great a load: folding, almost gracefully, into an unrecognizable tangle of struts and pillars. He was barely Pavel Williamson any longer as he turned with machine-precise movements and headed for his surgery.
In that cupboard he had passed so many times, the Easy Way Out.
He took it, sleek and chill, from its case, having no difficulty in remembering the combination of its lock, and turned it over and over. It was well past dawn, and there was plenty of light to see it by.
I denied him this, Pavel thought. I could have ended his life in ecstasy instead of a vain, stupid, pointless struggle against pain. Now he will die, unconscious, and—and he turned out to be a nice guy, in his way. I feel almost fond of him . . . and horribly ashamed of myself.
Because I’m going to use what I forbade him to.
Convulsively, he twisted the white cap of the EWO and pressed it down. It sank visibly along the main shaft, and there was a humming. Pavel closed his eyes.
Disbelievingly, he opened them again. All was exactly as it had been. Except the EWO. Heavy in his hands, it was now also growing hot. And—
He let it fall with an oath. A hissing noise followed, and a puff of smoke spurted from the capped end. The cap—some kind of plastic, he guessed—deformed and darkened.
After that it simply lay there.
He stared at it incredulously for a long while: how long, he could not tell. He felt like a suicide who took much trouble over choosing and knotting a rope, only to have it break under his weight.
“I’ll be damned!” he said furiously at last. “For all that pretty case with the combination lock—for all the padding it was nested in—it broke when we crashed! It doesn’t work!”
The thing was no longer smoking. He touched it, and found it merely warm. Snatching it up, he swung around to leave the surgery, blind with rage.
“I’ll pay him back for leading me on this way!” he heard himself shouting. “I’ll get even! I’ll . . .”
What was that?
From somewhere outside, a roaring sound. The crumpled steel of the corridor vibrated. He stood stock-still, one hand already outstretched to slide back the door of Andrew’s cabin.
The roar faded, and then grew louder again. He stared in horror at the EWO in his hand, thinking: Did it work after all? Is this an induced illusion, the fantasy of rescue?
But, surely, knowing how ashamed he had been when he was finally driven to try and use the gadget, he could rule that out. Any illusion he was capable of enjoying would exclude all memory of the EWO, because even to recall its existence would remind him he was condemned to death . . .
Uncertain, he turned around—and was suddenly running at full lung-tearing pelt towards the nearest opening in the hull, to light his beacon with trembling fingers and keel over beside it for the rescue party to locate.
“I—uh—I guess someone should apologize for not coming to find you sooner,” said the doctor at the central hospital on Carteret. “But it was logical enough that all hope was abandoned the moment they computed the Pennyroyals course. I mean, you wouldn’t expect anyone to live through a crash like that, hm?”
“I guess not,” Pavel said. He felt very much better although this oxygen-rich air was still making him a trifle giddy. “And when they did turn up, it was only for salvage, right? Not for rescue?”
“I’m afraid so,” the doctor admitted. “It was the insurance company covering that consignment of furs who chartered the ship which picked you up.”
He hesitated. “By the way,” he continued at last, “I’d like to compliment you on the marvelous job you did on Andrew Solichuck. You know his family is very big here on Carteret, and if he’d been found dead. . .” He ended the sentence with a gesture.
“Yes,” Pavel said. “Yes, it was a pretty good job, though I say so myself.”
He looked absently out of the window. This was a splendid modern building, very expensive, surrounded by magnificent lawns and flowerbeds, and he could see a swimming pool and a sun terrace where patients were soaking in the sunlight. Absently, he caressed something smooth and heavy which lay on his lap. What . . . ?
Oh, yes. The EWO which hadn’t worked.
He said suddenly, “How is Andrew now? I’d like to see him if I can.”
“I imagine that can be arranged,” the doctor said heartily. “Of course, he was in very bad shape when he was brought here, but when they heard the news his family back on Earth signaled that we shouldn’t spare any expense, and he’s had the finest surgery available on this planet. He’s up and about already— and as a matter of fact, I believe he asked to see you. Come with me!”
Rising, he added with a chuckle, “Aren’t you glad that thing of yours was broken after all?”
“What?” Pavel gave him a confused stare. “Oh! This?” Rising, he hefted the EWO. “Oh, it’s not mine.”
“We assumed it was,” the doctor said. “You were clinging to it for
