For once, he had no answer for it.
23
"THE SUITS!" SCREAMED MARTEL, POINTING WILDLY. "The pressure suits."
Hawkes followed the direction of his aide's hand as the woman started across the chamber. He saw the trio of suits flopping against the other wall, straining against their hooks as the dissipating atmosphere tried to suck them out of the ruined air lock.
The ambassador understood her meaning instantly. While she headed for the antique compression suits, Hawkes moved to intercept the pair of oxygen cylinders he saw rolling across the floor. He caught the pair of them, even as the first of the suits tore free from the wall.
"Benton!" Martel screamed in warning, but she was too late. The flying compression unit hit the ambassador square in the back—boots first, then the helmet. The faceplate shattered against the back of his head. The impact staggered him badly. Before he knew it, he had dropped one of the oxygen cylinders he had saved.
Blood sluiced wildly from a deep gash in the side of his head. Scarlet ribbons flew away from his head, disappearing past the compression door, following the lost cylinder into the tunnel—out into the atmosphere.
Hanging on to the remaining oxygen, Hawkes tried to unwrap himself from the flapping sleeves and leggings banging against him. At the same time, his aide reached the other wall and caught hold of the two remaining suits, holding on to them for dear life.
The ambassador forced his way to her side and immediately began screwing their single canister of air to one of the suits. As he did, he shouted, "Get in. Get in the suit."
"No," she screamed back. "You take the first one. I'll take the other."
"It's empty," he shouted back. "We've only got the one. Now get in."
"No!" As he felt the cylinder click into place, she continued, saying, "You're too important. You have to survive! Too much depends on it."
He wanted to argue, to tell her she was young—a newlywed—that she had her whole life ahead of her. He wanted to admit just how tired of everything he was— how he really would not mind checking out a little ahead of schedule.
But there was no time. All their air would be gone in a few minutes. Maybe in only a minute. The logical side of his brain silenced all argument; it forced him to look into her eyes. He could see her determination . . . could see that if he did not agree, she would simply release her hold and allow herself to be sucked away so that he would have no choice but to live on with more guilt than he could bear.
So what do you do, Hawkes? he asked himself. What do you do this time?
"All right. All right," he shouted. "Help me get in and get it sealed. Hurry!"
A loud, crashing sound tore away their attention. Outside in the tunnel, the loose cylinder had smashed through one of the passageway's support struts, tearing it loose from its mooring. As their atmosphere began to escape at an accelerated rate, the ambassador shoved his legs into the suit, screaming, "Hurry!"
His head pounding, black spots beginning to dance within his field of vision, Hawkes steeled his will, forcing his arms into the compression suit sleeves. Behind him, Martel shoved weakly at the back plates, desperate to align the magnetic seals properly. As she completed the last of them, the ambassador maneuvered his head into the large black glassed helmet.
And then, as the dark bowl snapped into place, he heard the rush of oxygen filling the suit. Sucking down a deep breath, he dropped to his knees, fumbling for the power attachments on the floor. Grabbing up the pile driver he had noticed earlier, he grappled with the awkward tool, trying to align its contacts so he could bring it to bear. Struggling to keep it sliding along its tracks, he prayed, Come on, you can do it. You can do it. You're not going to let that girl die. Not like the others. Not again. No one dies again. Come on . . . come on . . . come on . . . come—
The connection took. Instantly Hawkes moved back to his feet, forcing the ponderous compression suit toward the other wall with all his strength. He wanted to look back to see if Martel was still conscious, wanted to examine the voice controls to see if he could find the outer speakers, but there was no time.
The older compression suits had been designed as life-saving equipment. Their basic design was simple enough that anyone could get one running—could keep himself alive just by getting into one. Anything else, though, took time to figure out. Mere seconds, split seconds, even . . .but Hawkes had no seconds to spare. The time it would take to rotate his head to look at the woman willing to sacrifice herself for him might be the time it took to sign her death warrant.
"Just keep moving, old man," he growled to himself. With sweat running down his forehead, he fought the dizzying fatigue that clawed at him, pushed away the internal suggestions his body was sending to his mind, growling again, "Just keep moving. Do it. Do it. Do it!"
Reaching the next door, he swung up the power attachment, slammed it against the curved lip of the heavy door, and then pulled back on the pile driver's trigger. Immediately the robotic arm piece began pounding at the hatchway's edge. Hawkes kept moving the slicing chisel edge back and forth, trying to get it wedged inside the vacuum-tight seal.
"Hang on, Dina," he whispered, alone inside his helmet, not knowing if the woman was even still alive. Once inside the suit, his senses of hearing and touch had been completely shut off. Now he had no idea if the air was still rushing away . . . or already gone. Ignoring the grim possibility, he continued
