brightened visibly. That reaction was unmistakable.
“Oxygen,” said Kursedd, putting Conway’s thoughts into words, “or a high oxygen content.—
“The water doesn’t bother me,” Hendricks put in, “but chlorine and oxy is a pretty unbreathable mixture.”
“I agree,” said Conway. “Any being who breathes chlorine finds oxygen lethal in a matter of seconds, and vice versa. But one of the gases might form a very small percentage of the whole, a mere trace. It is also possible that both gases are trace constituents and the main component hasn’t turned up yet.”
The four remaining lines were pierced and samples taken within a few minutes, during which Kursedd had obviously been pondering over Conway’s statement. Just before it left for the tender and the analysis equipment therein the nurse paused.
“If these gases are in trace quantity only,” it said in its toneless, Translated voice, “why are not all the trace and inert elements, even the oxidizer or its equivalent, pre-mixed and pumped in together as we and most other races do it? They all leave by one pipe.”
Conway harrumphed. Precisely the same question had been bothering him, and he couldn’t even begin to answer it. He said sharply, “Right now I want those samples analyzed, get moving on that. Lieutenant Hendricks and I will try to work out the physical size and pressure requirements of the being. And don’t worry,” he ended dryly, “all things will eventually become plain.”
“Let us hope the answers come during curative surgery,” Kursedd gave out as a parting shot, “and not at the post-mortem.”
Without further urging Hendricks began lifting aside the buckled floor plating to get at the artificial gravity grids. Conway thought that he looked like a man who knew exactly what he was doing, so he left him to it and went looking for furniture.
III
The disaster had not been as other shipwrecks, where all movable objects together with a large number normally supposed to be immovable were lifted and hurled toward the point of impact. Here, instead, there had been a brief, savage shock which had disrupted the binding powers of practically every bolt, rivet and weld in the ship. Furniture, which was about the most easily damaged item in any ship, had suffered worst.
From a chair or bed could be told the shape, carriage and number of limbs of its user with fair accuracy, or if it possessed a hard tegument or required artificial padding for comfort. And a study of materials and design could give the gravity-pull which the being considered normal. But Conway was dead out of luck.
Some of the bits and pieces floating weightless in every compartment were almost certainly furniture, but they were so thoroughly mixed together that it was like trying to make sense of the scrambled parts of sixteen jigsaw puzzles. He thought of calling O’Mara, then decided against it. The Major would not be interested in how well he wasn’t getting on.
He was searching the ruins of what might have been a row of lockers, hoping wistfully to strike a bonanza in the shape of clothing or an e-t pin-up picture, when Kursedd called.
“The analysis is complete,” the nurse reported. “There is nothing unusual about the samples when considered separately. As a mixture they would be lethal to any species possessing a respiratory system. Mix them any way you want the result is a sludgy, poisonous mess.
“Be more explicit,” said Conway sharply. “I want data, not opinions.”
“As well as the gases already identified,” Kursedd replied, “there is ammonia, CO2, and two inerts. Together, and in any combination of which I can conceive, they form an atmosphere which is heavy, poisonous and highly opaque …
“It can’t be!” Conway snapped back. “You saw their interior paintwork, they used pastels a lot. Races living in an opaque atmosphere would not be sensitive to subtle variations of color—”
“Doctor Conway,” Hendricks’ voice broke in apologetically, “I’ve finished checking that grid. So far as I can tell it’s rigged to pull five Gs.”
A pull of five times Earth-normal gravity meant a proportionately high atmospheric pressure. The being must breathe a thick, poisonous soup — but a clear soup, he added hastily to himself. And there were other more immediate, and perhaps deadly, implications as well.
To Hendricks he said quickly, “Tell the rescue team to watch their step-without slowing down, if possible. Any beastie living under five Gs is apt to have muscles, and people in the survivor’s position have been known to run amuck.”
“I see what you mean,” said Hendricks worriedly, and signed off. Conway returned to Kursedd.
“You heard the Lieutenant’s report,” he resumed in a quieter voice. “Try combinations under high pressure. And remember, we want a clear atmosphere!”
There was a long pause, then: “Very well. But I must add that I dislike wasting time, even when I am ordered to do so.”
For several seconds Conway practiced savage self-restraint until a click in his phones told him that the DBLF had broken contact. Then he said a few words which, even had they been subjected to the emotion filtering process of Translation, would have left no doubt in any e-t’s mind that he was angry.
But slowly his rage toward this stupid, conceited, downright impertinent nurse he had been given began to fade. Perhaps Kursedd wasn’t stupid, no matter what else it might be. Suppose it was right about the opacity of that atmosphere, where did that leave them? The answer was with yet another piece of contradictory evidence.
The whole wreck was stuffed with contradictions, Conway thought wearily. The design and construction did not suggest a high-G species, yet the artificial gravity grids could produce up to five Gs. And the interior color schemes pointed to a race possessing a visual range close to Conway’s own. But the air they lived in, according to Kursedd, would need radar to see through. Not to mention a needlessly complex air-supply system and a bright orange outer hull …
For the twentieth time Conway tried to form a meaningful picture from the data at his disposal, in vain. Maybe if he attacked the' problem from a different direction..
Abruptly he snapped on his radio’s transmit switch and said, “Lieutenant Hendricks, will you connect me with the hospital, please. I want to talk to O’Mara. And I would like Captain Summerfield, yourself and Kursedd in on it, too. Can you arrange that?”
Hendricks made an affirmative noise and said, “Hang on a minute.”
Interspersed by clicks, buzzes and bleeps, Conway heard the chopped-up voices of Hendricks, a Monitor radio officer on Sheldon calling up the hospital and requesting Summerfield to come to the radio room, and the flat, Translated tones of an e-t operator in the hospital itself. In a little under the stipulated minute the babble subsided and the stern, familiar voice of O’Mara barked, “Chief Psychologist here. Go ahead.”
As briefly as possible Conway outlined the situation at the wreck, his lack of progress to date and the contradictory data they had uncovered. Then he went on … The rescue team is working toward the center of the wreck because that is the most likely place for the survivor to be. But it may be in a pocket off to one side somewhere and we may have to search every compartment in the ship to be sure of finding it. This could take many days. The survivor,” he went on grimly, “if not already dead must be in a very bad way. We don’t have that much time.”
“You have a problem, Doctor. What are you going to do about it?”
“Well,” Conway replied evasively, “a more general picture of the situation might help. If Captain Summerfield could tell me about the finding of the wreck — its position, course, or any personal impressions he can remember. For instance, would the extension each way of its direction of flight help us find its planet of origin? That would solve—”
“I’m afraid not, Doctor,” Summerfield’s voice came in. “Sighting backward we found that its course passed through a not-too-distant solar system. But this system had been mapped by us over a century previous and listed as a future possibility for colonization, which as you know means that it was devoid of intelligent life. No race can
