“Her blood was loaded with amphetamines.” “What?” Grant snapped to a sitting position despite his dizziness.
Muzorawa spread his hands. “Apparently the stimulants affected the central nervous system more strongly in the high-pressure environment than they do normally.”
“That’s what caused her heart attack?” Grant couldn’t believe it.
Muzorawa nodded.
“But why would she take uppers?” Grant wondered.
“To control her fear, perhaps. Or to heighten her reactions, make her more alert…” His voice trailed off.
“You don’t believe that, do you?”
The fluid dynamicist shook his head. “No. I have never known Irene to take drugs of any kind. Certainly not a cocaine derivative.”
“She took something from Red Devlin,” Grant remembered.
“When?”
“Several nights before you went into immersion. Uppers, he called the pills.”
Muzorawa frowned. “I will speak with Devlin. But I can’t believe Irene would put amphetamines into her system during the mission. She knew better.”
“But maybe … if she was frightened…”
“It would be very unlike her.”
“Then how did it get into her blood?” Grant asked.
Muzorawa leaned closer to the bed. “Perhaps the amphetamines were fed to her without her knowledge.”
“Somebody slipped them into her food?”
“Or drink.”
“But who would do that?”
“A Zealot.”
“Devlin?” Grant yelped.
“Perhaps.”
“No,” Grant blurted. “It’s impossible. How would he know how it would affect Irene when she was immersed in the sub? How would anybody know?”
Very gravely, Muzorawa replied, “My friend, you assume that the Zealots are all ignorant, irrational fools. That is wrong, I think. A man might be quite well educated and still a fanatic.”
“It couldn’t be Devlin,” Grant muttered, more to himself than Muzorawa. “He’s … he’s just a glorified cook.”
“He is a very ingenious man,” said Muzorawa. “Very capable, in his own way.”
“But he’s not a Zealot. He couldn’t be!”
“Why? Do you think all the Zealots are wild-eyed hysterics? A man may smile and still be a villain, as Shakespeare pointed out.”
“But… Devlin?” Grant looked into Muzorawa’s wary, red-rimmed eyes. “Don’t you think it’s more likely to be one of us? One of the crew?”
“No, not at all. That would be like committing suicide.”
“But a Zealot wouldn’t mind dying if it accomplished his goal. Or hers.”
“I cannot believe it would be Egon or Lane.”
“What about Krebs?”
“Krebs?”
“She’s weird, Zeb. I think maybe she’s crazy.”
Muzorawa blinked slowly several times. Then he said, in a voice hushed with fear, “If it is Krebs then we are all doomed.”
TRAINING
The surgeon who implanted the biochips and electrodes in Grant was a baby-faced, sharp-tongued martinet: young, almost Grant’s own age, obviously gifted and obviously well aware of his talents, impatient with his meager staff, his enforced Public Service duties, the station facilities, and especially with his patients.
“You can’t stay in bed forever,” the surgeon snapped as soon as he yanked back the plastic screen on the side of Grant’s cubicle. Two other medics stood behind him at a respectful distance, watching. “Wo wants you up and on your feet. Now.”
With some trepidation, Grant swung his legs off the bed. They felt like lengths of lumber, as if they didn’t belong to him.
“Let go of the bed!” the surgeon demanded. “Stand on your own feet!”
Grant tried it and stood there, swaying slightly, feeling as if he would topple over any second. The surgeon glared at him, fists on his hips. Two other medics watched in silence.
“All right, now walk to me,” the surgeon said, holding out his hands.
Grant took a hesitant, clumsy step. His legs hurt; stinging pain stabbed through them.
The surgeon backed away, urging, “Come on, come on.”
Grant moved his other foot. It was like dragging a dead weight, but a dead weight that burned with pain.
“Walk, damn you!” the surgeon yelled. The medics behind him retreated, keeping their distance from their chief.
Grant forced himself to take another step, then stumbled. He grabbed for the surgeon, but all he managed to do was clutch the man’s sleeve as he crashed painfully to the floor.
“Jesus H. Christ!” the surgeon yowled. “You ripped the sleeve out of my damned shirt!”
He turned his back on Grant and stamped angrily away. His aides scampered after him, leaving Grant alone in a heap on the floor.
“Clumsiest damned idiot yet,” he heard the surgeon complaining loudly. “Goddamned clod! Wo’s going to have a stroke when he hears about this one.”
Reaching for the bed for support, Grant slowly pulled himself back to his feet and propped his rump on the edge of the mattress, panting with exertion. His legs felt as if they were on fire. I’m going to be a cripple, he said to himself. I can’t walk!
For what seemed like hours Grant sat on the infirmary bed, his legs aching, his pulse racing with the certainty that his legs had been ruined. I’ll be just like Wo, he told himself. I’ll be stuck in a powerchair for the rest of my life.
He even thought he could hear the thin humming whine of a powerchair’s electric motor. Looking up from his ruined legs, he saw Dr. Wo rolling past the mostly empty infirmary beds toward him.
Grant flinched inwardly. But as Wo approached, he felt a steely anger flow over him. His fists clenched on the bed-sheets. He sat up straighter.
He can’t scare me, Grant told himself. He can’t intimidate me. I don’t care what he says …
Wo stopped his chair a good five meters from Grant’s bed. The director looked Grant up and down, from his completely bald head to his electrode-studded, useless legs.
“I know it is difficult, at first,” the older man said calmly, almost gently. “But we have no time to spare. The IAA inspection team will be here in little more than eight days.
Grant shook his head sadly. “I know. I understand what you’re trying to do, but—”
“Your legs are physically strong. You can walk. It merely takes a bit of practice to reestablish the nerve pathways.”
“I can’t even stand up,” Grant said.
“Yes you can.”
