chamber
lighting came on. He added, "Better tell the colonel about this, too."
McCullough informed the colonel that Walters had found the light switches,
had experimented with them and that the Ship's illumination was a bright,
bluish-white emanating from tubes which they had mistaken for sections of
plumbing. There was still no reaction from the alien crew, and McCullough
was beginning to wonder if the Ship had a crew.
"You two seem to have a weakness for slamming doors and switching
lights on! However, this wraps it up for the time being. We need rest.
Return to P-Two -- we have a lot to think about before we do anything
else on that ship. Say so if you understand."
"Understood, sir," said Walters. "But we would like a sample of Ship's
air before we leave. Five minutes should do it."
McCullough was beginning to feel irritable and very tired and he did
want the chance to analyze as soon as possible whatever atmosphere it
was that the aliens breathed. But the thought kept recurring to him
that he was not being very cautious about this, that he was breaking
even his own rules, and that fatigue was a little like drunkenness in
that it made people take chances.
Walters opened the corridor seal and the alien air roared into the lock
chamber. Their suits lost their taut, puffy appearance and hung loosely
against their bodies. Ship pressure seemed to be a pound or two per
square inch higher than suit pressure, McCullough thought as he took
the sample. The pilot was moving toward the open seal.
"I'm only going to take a look," said Walters.
McCullough joined him.
There was only one source of light in the corridor, the one switched on
by Walters, so that both ends disappeared into blackness. But suddenly
McCullough felt the wall netting vibrate and -- something --
was shooting toward them along the corridor . . .
McCullough flung himself back, but Walters, who had a leg and arm outside
the rim at the time, fumbled and was slower getting in. The doctor had
a glimpse of something rushing past the opening, something which looked
a little like a heavy, leathery starfish, then Walters reached the lock
actuator and the seal slammed closed.
The pilot remained floating with one hand gripping the actuator lever
and the other resting ludicrously on his hip. His face was white and
sweating and his eyes were squeezed shut.
"It can't get in, now -- we're safe -- " began McCullough, then stopped.
Walters was not safe. There was a large, triangular tear in the fabric
of his suit at the right hip. The undergarment showed through it, also
a section of the air-conditioning system looking strangely like a bared
artery, although the leg itself did not appear to be injured.
The pilot was trying to hold the tear closed with his hand. But it was
too big, the edges were too ragged and the pressure difference was too
great to keep the alien atmosphere from forcing its way into his suit.
He began to cough.
chapter eight
More than anything else he had ever wanted in his whole life, McCullough
wanted out. Never before had the cramped and stinking confines of the
command module seemed so desirable and secure. And P-Two was drifting
less than a hundred yards away, with Berryman on watch ready to help him
inside and take him away from this suddenly frightful place. All he had
to do was operate one childishly simple lever.
It would mean evacuating the chamber, of course. Walters would die of
explosive decompression. But the pilot was strangling to death in an
alien atmosphere anyway and the other might be quicker and more merciful .
Except that Berryman might not want to leave without Walters, and
explosive decompression was not a nice way to die, and in his student
days McCullough had been pretty thoroughly conditioned against mercy
killing . . .
"Doctor," said
lighting came on. He added, "Better tell the colonel about this, too."
McCullough informed the colonel that Walters had found the light switches,
had experimented with them and that the Ship's illumination was a bright,
bluish-white emanating from tubes which they had mistaken for sections of
plumbing. There was still no reaction from the alien crew, and McCullough
was beginning to wonder if the Ship had a crew.
"You two seem to have a weakness for slamming doors and switching
lights on! However, this wraps it up for the time being. We need rest.
Return to P-Two -- we have a lot to think about before we do anything
else on that ship. Say so if you understand."
"Understood, sir," said Walters. "But we would like a sample of Ship's
air before we leave. Five minutes should do it."
McCullough was beginning to feel irritable and very tired and he did
want the chance to analyze as soon as possible whatever atmosphere it
was that the aliens breathed. But the thought kept recurring to him
that he was not being very cautious about this, that he was breaking
even his own rules, and that fatigue was a little like drunkenness in
that it made people take chances.
Walters opened the corridor seal and the alien air roared into the lock
chamber. Their suits lost their taut, puffy appearance and hung loosely
against their bodies. Ship pressure seemed to be a pound or two per
square inch higher than suit pressure, McCullough thought as he took
the sample. The pilot was moving toward the open seal.
"I'm only going to take a look," said Walters.
McCullough joined him.
There was only one source of light in the corridor, the one switched on
by Walters, so that both ends disappeared into blackness. But suddenly
McCullough felt the wall netting vibrate and -- something --
was shooting toward them along the corridor . . .
McCullough flung himself back, but Walters, who had a leg and arm outside
the rim at the time, fumbled and was slower getting in. The doctor had
a glimpse of something rushing past the opening, something which looked
a little like a heavy, leathery starfish, then Walters reached the lock
actuator and the seal slammed closed.
The pilot remained floating with one hand gripping the actuator lever
and the other resting ludicrously on his hip. His face was white and
sweating and his eyes were squeezed shut.
"It can't get in, now -- we're safe -- " began McCullough, then stopped.
Walters was not safe. There was a large, triangular tear in the fabric
of his suit at the right hip. The undergarment showed through it, also
a section of the air-conditioning system looking strangely like a bared
artery, although the leg itself did not appear to be injured.
The pilot was trying to hold the tear closed with his hand. But it was
too big, the edges were too ragged and the pressure difference was too
great to keep the alien atmosphere from forcing its way into his suit.
He began to cough.
chapter eight
More than anything else he had ever wanted in his whole life, McCullough
wanted out. Never before had the cramped and stinking confines of the
command module seemed so desirable and secure. And P-Two was drifting
less than a hundred yards away, with Berryman on watch ready to help him
inside and take him away from this suddenly frightful place. All he had
to do was operate one childishly simple lever.
It would mean evacuating the chamber, of course. Walters would die of
explosive decompression. But the pilot was strangling to death in an
alien atmosphere anyway and the other might be quicker and more merciful .
Except that Berryman might not want to leave without Walters, and
explosive decompression was not a nice way to die, and in his student
days McCullough had been pretty thoroughly conditioned against mercy
killing . . .
"Doctor," said
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