Dr. Wo might be paranoid, but Grant thought it was better to be paranoid than the victim of some terrorist’s fiery zeal.
As Devlin headed for the coffee urn, Grant leaned toward Pascal and whispered, “Irene, you told him three days. But the mission doesn’t launch until six days from now.”
“Yes,” she agreed, nodding. “But in three days the crew goes into immersion. We do not come out once we are immersed.”
“I didn’t realize—”
“Once we begin breathing that awful liquid, we do not come into the air again until the mission is completed,” she said.
Grant thought she looked grim, like a prisoner about to be swallowed up by an inescapable jail. And she looked more than a little frightened, too.
He walked with Irene back to their quarters. Pascal’s compartment was a few dozen meters up the corridor from Grant’s. The corridor was dim, shadowy in its nighttime lighting. They saw no one else along the way except a solitary security guard pacing sleepily along his rounds; it was too late at night for casual strollers.
So it surprised Grant to see Kayla Ukara sitting on the floor next to Pascal’s door, her back propped against the wall, her head resting on her knees as if asleep.
“Oh,” Irene said in a small voice.
Ukara’s head snapped up, her eyes fully alert. Instead of her usual fierce, pantherlike expression, she actually smiled up at Irene.
As Ukara scrambled to her feet, Pascal turned to Grant, red-cheeked with embarrassment. “Thank you for walking me home,” she said in a quick, low voice.
Grant nodded, puzzled. “It’s okay. My place is just down the corridor.”
But Pascal was not paying any attention to him. Her eyes were on Ukara and no one else.
Grant muttered a good night to them both and continued down the corridor. He glanced once over his shoulder at them. Pascal was tapping out the security code on her door lock; Kayla had a long, slim arm around Irene’s waist.
They’re lovers! Grant felt shocked. He knew he shouldn’t, knew it was none of his business, that the two women were adults and had the right to their own personal lives. Yet deep in the core of his being he felt that what they were doing was wrong, deeply wrong.
It’s none of your business, Grant told himself. Forget about it.
Still, it bothered him.
The next night Grant tied the neural net he was wearing under his chin.
“See?” he said to Sheena. “It looks better.”
Sheena eyed him suspiciously.
They were sitting on the plastic-tiled floor of Sheena’s spacious pen, Grant facing the gorilla. Her bulk loomed over him like a hairy mountain.
“And it won’t fall off.” Grant shook his head vigorously. The net stayed snug around his skull.
Sheena waggled her head ponderously and her net slid clattering to the floor.
She huffed and stared at the net at her feet. Then she picked it up and draped it over her head again. Grant expected her to try to tie its loose ends, but instead she simply looked down at her open hands.
“No,” she said, and Grant thought it sounded discouraged, disheartened.
She looked at Grant. “Hands … no … Sheena can’t do.”
Grant felt a wave of sadness wash over him. She knows her hands aren’t dexterous enough to tie the ends. She knows how limited she is.
“Grant do,” said Sheena.
“Sure, Sheena,” he said, scrambling toward her. “I’ll be happy to help you.”
“Grant help Sheena.”
“Yes, I will.” He knelt before her powerful body, feeling the heat of her, knowing that those arms of hers could crush his ribs, and carefully tied the neural net under her chin.
“There,” he said, sitting back on the floor again. “Now we’re the same.”
“No.” Sheena swung her heavy head from side to side slowly. “Not same. Sheena not Grant. Grant not Sheena.”
He gulped once, wondering what he could say. When he found his voice, he replied, “I’m your friend, Sheena. You and I are friends.”
“Friends.” Sheena seemed to think that over for a while. Then she said again, “Grant help Sheena.”
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll help you all I can.”
When the overhead lights went down to their nighttime level and Sheena lumbered into the corner of her pen where the plastic padding had been wadded up into a sleeping nest, Grant climbed wearily to his feet and stepped out into the narrow corridor.
“Good night, Sheena,” he called.
She must have already fallen asleep, because she did not reply. Grant tiptoed to the electronic console sitting a few meters up the corridor. Gingerly he flicked on the power and activated the scanners.
Four small display screens along the top of the console lit up. Green worms of lines crawled across them. Squinting in the dim lighting, Grant checked to make certain that the equipment was recording Sheena’s brain waves. He nodded, satisfied, hoping that the data would cheer Pascal before she left on the deep mission. Maybe we’ll catch her dreaming, he hoped.
The next morning he located Pascal in the lockers where the mission crew changed into their wetsuits. No one else was in the locker area. The others had already gone to the aquarium for the day’s simulation tasks.
Pascal was pleased that they were getting data at last, but Grant could see that her mind was obviously focused on the mission.
“By the time you get back,” he said, trying to sound cheerful, “you’ll have enough data to write a book.”
“If?”
She zippered up the front of the suit, then reached for the plastic full-face mask on the shelf above the empty suit rack. Grant realized that her legs were bare. Glittery electrodes lined the outside of both legs from her hips to halfway down her calves. They looked like the ends of silver bullets embedded in her flesh. It took a conscious effort for Grant not to stare at them.
“The closer we get to launch, the more fearful I become,” Pascal confessed.
“That’s natural, I suppose,” said Grant. “Nerves.”
“Yes,” she said bitterly. “Entirely natural. But not pleasant to experience.”
Pascal headed for the doorway, her bare feet padding softly on the plastic tiles. Grant saw that she had forgotten her air tank. He picked it up from the floor of her locker, surprised at how heavy it was, and started after her.
Christel Krebs appeared at the doorway, her bulky form effectively blocking it. Pascal stopped, holding her transparent mask in both hands in front of herself, as if for protection.
Krebs stepped awkwardly toward her. Her thick legs were studded with electrodes, too, Grant saw.
She seemed to peer at Pascal quizzically.
“I’m sorry I’m running late, Dr. Krebs” Pascal began. “You see—”
“Dr. Pascal,” said Krebs, as if recognizing her for the first time. She blinked, then went on, “The others are all waiting for you. We have no time to waste.”
“Yes, I understand,” said Pascal.
“Irene,” Grant called. He held out the air tank. “You’ll need this, won’t you?”
Pascal hesitated, then put her mask down on the floor, and allowed Grant to help her slip the tank’s straps over her shoulders.
“Archer, isn’t it?” Krebs said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You should be at the control center, not here.”
