Between the Strokes of Night Read online

  They had made good progress. The north pole would soon be in sight. And in less than an hour, Peron would know the falseness of his final words.

  * * *

  The dome was a hemisphere of tough, flexible polymer, roughly twenty meters across. It was located on the exact axis of rotation of the planet. That axis was highly tilted to Whirlygig’s orbit plane, so at this time of year the golden sun of Cassay was permanently invisible, hovering down over the other pole. Only the weak companion, Cassby, threw its ruddy glow across the landscape, providing adequate light but little heat. There were no free volatiles on Whirlygig, but the surface temperature at polar midwinter would be cold enough to liquefy methane.

  Peron and Elissa had been too engrossed in their conversation to make the best speed from the equator, and they arrived last. The others were already landed, clustered around the dome. Sy, Lum and Rosanne were inspecting the entry airlock, without touching any part of the door. Kallen and Wilmer were away around the back, on the opposite side of the dome, looking at something on the wall.

  Elissa stepped close to see what Sy was doing. “Problems?”

  Lum turned and nodded. “Wondered when you two would get here. Problems. Maybe we won’t have a pleasant night out of our suits after all.”

  Sy was still crouched over by the door. He seemed rather pleased to be faced with the new challenge.

  “See, here’s how it’s supposed to work,” he said. “There’s an airlock with an inner and outer door. The outer door, this one here, has a fail-safe on it, so it won’t open when there’s any gas pressure in the airlock. First you have to pump out the lock to near vacuum, and you can do it from outside. That’s this control, on the outside wall. When we arrived, there was atmosphere in the airlock, so naturally it wouldn’t open. We pumped it out — the pumps work fine — but it still won’t open.”

  “Motor failure?” asked Peron.

  “Could be. The next step is to try to open it manually. But we want to be sure we know what we’re doing. Over on the other side of the dome there’s a big patch of black sealant. Suggests there was a meteor impact, and the self-repairing system took care of it. But we don’t know what that may have done to the inside until we get there. And we don’t know how much damage the mechanical systems may have suffered. Maybe the meteor hit the lock, too. We’ll have to get in and find out.”

  Peron stepped forward to peer at the door. It appeared quite intact. “You’re sure there’s no pressure now in the airlock?”

  “Positive. The gauge there is working. It showed pressure when we arrived, and as we pumped it went down to zero.”

  “So it should be safe enough to open manually,” added Lum. “We were preparing to do that when you two arrived. Come on, another pair of hands may help a lot.” The outer door of the lock gave grudgingly, as Sy, Lum, and Peron jerked hard at it. Finally it was about halfway open, almost enough to admit a person. “My turn now,” said Rosanne. “I couldn’t be much use in the tugging and heaving part, but I’m thin enough to get in there where you fatties can’t, and see what’s going on. Give me room.”

  She came to the lock door, turned sideways, and began to crab carefully into the opening.

  Peron was standing just behind her. He heard Sy’s warning yell at the same moment as the thought came into his own head. Idiots! If we know the outer door isn’t working right, why assume that the controls for the inner one are any better?

  He leaned forward, took Rosanne around the waist and with one movement propelled her back and sideways, away from the open outer door of the lock. He heard a gasp of surprise and annoyance over her radio as Rosanne skittered away across the silver-and-brown surface. Then before he could follow her, a great force took him and drove him end-over-end across the jagged rocks.

  Even as he was jerked and battered inside his suit, his own thoughts remained quite clear. The inner door seal must have been already broken, ready to fail and hanging on a thread. So long as there was an equalizing pressure in airlock and dome, there was no problem. But once they had pumped down the pressure in the lock, the inner door had tons of air pressure exerted upon it. If it failed, all the dome’s gases would be released in one giant blow-out through the lock. And for anyone standing in the way…

  Peron was spinning and ricocheting from one rock formation to the next. He felt three separate and shattering collisions, one on the chest, one on the head, and one across his hip. Then, quite suddenly, it was over. He was lying supine on the surface, staring at the ruby orb of Cassby and surprised to find that he was still alive.

  The others came crowding round him, helping him to his feet. He was amazed to see that he was almost fifty meters away from the dome. Rosanne had picked herself up and was waving to show that she was all right.

  “I’m all right, too,” said Peron.

  There was a long, strange silence from the others. At last Peron noticed a faint, ominous chill on the lower left side of his abdomen. He looked down. His suit there was dreadfully buckled and splintered from chest to thighs, and over his abdomen it showed white instead of the usual metallic gray.

  “Air supply working, but he’s lost two tanks.” That was Lum, his voice oddly distorted, from behind him. The suit radio had taken a beating, but it still functioned after a fashion.

  “No problem, he can share ours.”

  “Motor controls look all right.”

  “Food containers gone.”

  “We can cover for that.”

  “Oh-oh. Thermal system is out. And most of the suit insulation is stripped from the lower torso.”

  “That’s a worse problem.”

  His radio’s distortion was so bad that Peron found it hard to identify the speakers. He cut to a privacy mode. While they inspected the condition of his equipment, his own mind raced on ahead of them.

  Evaluate the options.

  Think!

  Fourteen hours back to the equator — say that could be shaved to ten hours at maximum speed. A few minutes in the launch catapult, then another six or seven hours to ship rendezvous. Hopeless. Even with full insulation, in these temperatures the suit would protect him for only three or four hours. He’d be dead of hypothermia long before he reached the equator.

  Change to a new suit? There was none. They carried spare parts for small suit components, but not for the whole thing.

  Think. Bundle him into something that would keep him warm for a long time? Fine — but what? There was nothing.

  Take him into the dome, replace the lost atmosphere from tanks, and raise the temperature? Maybe. They could get air in there in less than an hour. But they couldn’t generate heat fast enough. He would be able to breathe, and still he’d freeze to death.

  Signal for an emergency landing at the pole of Whirlygig by a small ship? It was probably the best hope — but still too slow. Say three or four hours to prepare, then another three before it arrived here. By then Peron would be an icy corpse. Other ideas? He could find none. His mind ran on, writing its own obituary: Peron of Turcanta, twenty years old, who survived the dunes of Talimantor Desert, the night woods of Villasylvia, the Hendrack Maze, the water caverns of Charant, the Capandor glaciers, the abyssal depths of the Lackro Trench… who had lived on, to freeze on Whirlygig. His name would be added to that list of names that the government never mentioned, the unfortunates who died in the off-planet final trials of the Planetfest games.

  Peron turned his suit back to general receiving mode.

  “We’re agreed, then,” a clear voice was saying. “Nothing any of us can think of would do it in time?”

  The distortion of the damaged radio changed the tone of the voice. Peron came back from his own somber thoughts, and found to his surprise that the speaker was Wilmer.

  “Looks that way.” That was obviously Lum speaking. “We called the ship and they’ll have something here as soon as they can, but it will probably be eight hours. Sy did a rough heat loss estimate from the condition of the suit, and calculates that we h
ave a couple of hours to do something — three at the outside.” “Damnation.”

  My thoughts exactly, said Peron to himself, amazed by his own calm. Damnation. But what was happening to Wilmer? After tagging along as a good-natured mystery and non-contestant through all the games, he was suddenly the dominant figure of the group. The others were actually deferring to him, letting him control them. Peron had a sudden insight. It was simple shock. Shock had overwhelmed all of them; but somehow Wilmer and he, Peron, the source of all the concern and the one who was condemned to die, could distance themselves from the emotion. He caught sight of Elissa’s horrified face through the faceplate of her suit, and gave her an encouraging smile. Kallen had tears in his eyes, and even Sy had lost that remote look of calm confidence.

  “No other ideas?” went on Wilmer. “Right. Give me a hand. Peron, I want to talk to you. The rest of you, I 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.