want an atmosphere inside the dome as soon as you can get it. Don’t worry about the temperature, I know it will be low and we can handle that.”
He was opening the green equipment sack that he had carried with him down to Whirlygig, and examining the array of ampoules, syringes, and electronic tools that lay in neat rows within it. After one long, startled look Sy headed for the dome, but the others stood motionless until Lum’s roar: “Let’s get to it.” As he left he turned to Wilmer, his great hands clenched in their suit gloves. “This is no time to talk, but you’d better know what you’re doing. If you don’t I’ll personally skin you alive when we get back to the ship.”
Wilmer didn’t bother to answer. Behind the faceplate his face was set in a scowl of concentration.
“Private circuit. You and I have to talk for a couple of minutes,” he said to Peron, and waited until the personal suit frequency was confirmed. “All right. How do you rate your chances?”
“As zero.”
“Fine. We’ll be starting off without any delusions. I assume you’re ready to take a risk?”
Peron felt like laughing. “You mean, one that gives me less chance of survival than I have now?”
“A fair answer. I know exactly what I’m going to do, but I’ve never tried it under circumstances remotely like these. I’ve got the drugs I need, and the environment in the dome won’t be too far from the lab conditions. All right?” “I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.”
“And I don’t have the time to explain. Never mind. First, I’m going to give you an injection. It will have to go right in through your suit, but I think the needle will take it and the self-sealing will take care of the puncture. After that we’ll get you inside. I think the shoulder seal is best.”
Before Peron had time to object Wilmer had moved to his side, and he felt the sharp sting of a needle in his left trapezius muscle.
“Now we have less than a minute before you’ll begin to feel dizzy.” Wilmer had thrown the hypodermic away and was taking another from his case. “Listen closely. I want you to crack all the suit seals so we can easily take it off you when you’re unconscious. Don’t talk, and go on breathing as shallowly as you can. When you feel you are going under, don’t try to fight it. Let it happen. All right?”
The chilly area in the center of his stomach was spreading rapidly to engulf his whole torso. At the same time he had the feeling that the horizon of Whirlygig was retreating steadily from him, becoming farther and farther away. He nodded to Wilmer, and manipulated the control that transferred all suit seals to external access. His own breathing felt harsh and rapid, and he struggled to inhale and exhale slowly and steadily.
“Good man. Sorry I don’t have time to explain, but I’ve never heard of this situation happening before. I’ll probably get slaughtered when they find out what I’m trying to do. But you’re lucky. I was in bad trouble myself on Whirlygig once, over three hundred years ago. And I remember how I felt.” Wilmer gripped his hand. “Good luck, Peron. When you wake up again you’ll be over in S-space.”
In S-space. If I survive, there’ll be one more mystery to explain. Peron returned Wilmer’s grip.
“I’ll need help,” said Wilmer. He was back on open circuit. “We have to get Peron out of that suit as soon as the pressure will let us. And he’ll be unconscious. Elissa, will you organize the fastest way to do that?” Peron felt an overpowering and irrational urge to laugh. Wilmer, said a voice inside him, my odd and hairless friend, how you’ve changed. You were an old tardy-worm down on Pentecost, and now you’re transformed into a golden-winged butterfly of authority. Or do I mean a plant, a rare exotic form that only blooms when it’s off-planet? That question was suddenly important, but he knew he could not provide an answer.
Control had gone. He knew they were at the dome and ready to go inside it, but he could no longer see the door of the lock. Or the stars, or even the ground he stood upon. The scene before him was blinking out, bit by bit. It was like a great jigsaw puzzle, where every piece was black. All he could see was Wilmer, still holding his arm.
So. This is what it’s like to die. Not too bad, really. Not bad at all. The final piece of the puzzle was placed in position. Wilmer disappeared, and the whole world was dark.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Waking was agony.
It began as only a low murmur of voices, speaking a familiar language but with pitch and intonation so changed that they were barely comprehensible. It was like the voice of a machine. He strained to understand. “… little more asfanol… even a few more minutes… until we know what to do with athers (others?)… heart beat sturdy (steady?) now…”
Then a clearer statement, in an angry and petulant lower voice. “Damned nuisance. Can’t do a thing until we have a policy statement. Why that fool had to do what he did… it will take us a month…”
He was breathing. The air came hot into his lungs, searing the delicate alveoli with every slow breath. He felt it burn across the air-blood barrier, then fiery rivers of oxygen were surging along arteries and capillaries out to every extremity of his body. It was a relentless pain. There was an agony of awaking tissue and returning circulation, accompanied by muscle spasms he could not control.
Peron moved his tongue. As it touched his teeth it felt dry and swollen, too big for his mouth. But when he licked his lips there was a sense of slick, glycerine texture and a taste that puckered the inside of his mouth. He grunted in disgust, but no sound would come from his throat.
“He’s awake,” said another voice. “Get ready. Peron Turca. Can you open your eyes?”
Peron tried to do it. The lashes felt gummed shut, but by a steady effort he could free them, little by little. He peered upward through slitted eyes and found that he was looking at a pale gray ceiling, curving without seam to meet walls of the same color. Somewhere off to his right there was a steady swishing and pulsing sound.
He turned his head to that side. The neck muscles reluctantly creaked, stretched, and obeyed his mental command. He was lying next to a great mass of medical equipment, monitors, pumps, IVs, and telemetering units. Numerous tubes and wires ran across to his bared right arm. Others extended to run up his nostrils and down to his lower body. He was naked.
He lifted his head. There was something subtly wrong in making the movement, but it did not feel like an internal problem. It felt rather as though the laws of mechanics had been changed, so that although he was clearly not in freefall, neither was he moving under any normal form of gravity.
And something was wrong with his eyes. Badly wrong. He could see, but everything was blurred and indistinct, with edges poorly defined and with all colors muted to pastel shades.
Peron turned his head to the left. Next to the table on which he was lying sat a woman. She was middle- aged, frowning, and looking at him with obvious disapproval. Her face had a smooth, babyish skin, and she wore a blue cowl that was closely fitted to her skull.
“All right,” she said. She did not seem to be speaking to Peron. “Motor control seems to be there. Command: Let’s have three c.c.’s of historex in the thigh.” It was the voice that he had first heard, and again it sounded hoarse and oddly mechanical. He saw and heard nothing happen, but after a few seconds there was a brief new ache in his thigh. Then the pain in all his muscles began to decrease. The woman gazed at his expression, and nodded.
“Excellent. Command: Check the monitors, and if they’re satisfactory remove catheters. Gently.”
Peron stared down at the catheters that ran into his lower body, and made sure that he kept his gaze on them. Again he saw and felt nothing, but after a moment they had vanished. Another second, and the tube into his nostrils was gone. He drew in a long, shuddering breath. The fire in the lungs was still there. The woman still looked annoyed. “You feel strange and uncomfortable. I know. S-space has that effect on everybody at first. It doesn’t last. Just be thankful that you’re alive when you ought to be dead.”
Alive! Alive. Peron had a sudden flood of memory, carrying him back to the last despairing minutes on Whirlygig. He had been dying there, resigned to the inevitable, quite sure of his own death — and here he was alive! All the pain washed away in a moment, overwhelmed by knowledge of life. He wanted to speak, to give a great shout of joy at the fact of simple existence; but again no words would come out.
“Don’t try it,” said the woman. “Not yet. You’ll have to learn how to speak, and it takes a little while. And don’t rub your eyes. They’re working normally but things look different here. Now, there are things to be done before you’re ready to talk. That fool Wilmer certainly gave us all a problem, but I guess we’re stuck with it. We can’t kill you now. Command: Bring him a drink. Water will do, but check the ion balances and the blood sugar, and
