prodded George’s hide; it was firm and resilient. The gorgon’s color was a clear pink; the intricate folds of his auricles seemed crisp and alert.
Alvarez took a hand scale from his kit; it was preset for A-level gravity. “Climb up here, George.” Obediently, the gorgon settled himself on the pan of the scale while Alvarez held it up. “Hm,” said Alvarez. “He’s lost a good deal of weight.”
“He has?” asked Dominick hopefully.
“But he seems to be in unusually good condition—better than a week ago, I would say. Perhaps just a little sugar solution to pep him up—” Alvarez withdrew the hypo from his kit, aimed it at George’s smooth skin and pressed the trigger.
Dominick sighed. “Well, I suppose we might as well go ahead. George, just hop up there and let Ritner tie those straps onto you.”
George obediently climbed onto the table. Ritner buckled straps around four of his limbs and then began to tighten the cylinder. “Not too much,” said George anxiously.
“I’ll be careful,” Ritner assured him. He kept on winding the cylinder up. “How does that feel?” George’s “arms” and “legs” were half again their usual length, and still stretching.
“Tickles,” said George.
Ritner went on turning the handle. Womrath coughed nervously and was shushed. George’s limbs kept on getting longer; then his body started to lengthen visibly.
“Are you all right, George?” Dominick asked.
“All right.”
Ritner gave the handle a last despairing twist. George’s elongated body stretched all the way in comfort from one end of the rack to the other: there was no place else for him to go.
“Nice,” said George. “Do again.” He was glowing a happy pink.
Ritner, who seemed about to cry, petulantly kicked his machine. Alvarez snorted and went away. In the corridor, unseen, he jumped up and clicked his heels together. He was having a wonderful time; his only regret was that it was not tomorrow. Come to think of it, why wait till Wednesday?
Commandant Charles Watson Carver, S.S., had been trained to make quick and courageous decisions. Once you began to entertain a doubt of your own rightness, you would hesitate too much, begin to second-guess yourself, fall prey to superstition and anxiety, and end up without any power of decision at all.
The trouble was, you could never be right all the time. Following the book to the letter, or improvising brilliantly, either way, you were bound to make mistakes. The thing was, to cross them off and go ahead just the same.
Carver firmed his chin and straightened his back, looking down at the sick gorgon. It was sick, all right, there was no “question about that: the thing’s limbs drooped and weaved slightly, dizzily. Its hide was dry and hot to the touch. “How long has he been like this?” Carver demanded, hesitating only slightly over the “he”: aliens were “it” to him and always had been, but it didn’t do to let anybody know it.
“Twenty minutes, more or less,” said Dr. Nasalroad. “I just “got here myself”—he stifled a yawn—“about ten minutes ago.”
“What are you doing here, anyway?” Carver asked him. “It’s ,Alvarez’s shift.”
Nasalroad looked embarrassed. “I know. Alvarez is in the hospital, as a patient. I think he assaulted a cook’s helper named Samuels—poured soup over his head. He was shouting something about boiling the boil on Samuel’s neck. We had to put him under sedation; it took three of us.”
Carver set his jaw hard. “Nasalroad, what in thunder is happening on this wheel, anyhow? First this thing attacks my wife—then Alvarez—” He glared down at George. “Can you pull him out of this, whatever it is?”
Nasalroad looked surprised. “That would be a large order. We don’t know any gorgon medicine—I was assuming you’d want to beam down and ask them .”
That was reasonable, of course: the only hitch was, as usual, a matter of interpretation. Was this something they
Alvarez took a hand scale from his kit; it was preset for A-level gravity. “Climb up here, George.” Obediently, the gorgon settled himself on the pan of the scale while Alvarez held it up. “Hm,” said Alvarez. “He’s lost a good deal of weight.”
“He has?” asked Dominick hopefully.
“But he seems to be in unusually good condition—better than a week ago, I would say. Perhaps just a little sugar solution to pep him up—” Alvarez withdrew the hypo from his kit, aimed it at George’s smooth skin and pressed the trigger.
Dominick sighed. “Well, I suppose we might as well go ahead. George, just hop up there and let Ritner tie those straps onto you.”
George obediently climbed onto the table. Ritner buckled straps around four of his limbs and then began to tighten the cylinder. “Not too much,” said George anxiously.
“I’ll be careful,” Ritner assured him. He kept on winding the cylinder up. “How does that feel?” George’s “arms” and “legs” were half again their usual length, and still stretching.
“Tickles,” said George.
Ritner went on turning the handle. Womrath coughed nervously and was shushed. George’s limbs kept on getting longer; then his body started to lengthen visibly.
“Are you all right, George?” Dominick asked.
“All right.”
Ritner gave the handle a last despairing twist. George’s elongated body stretched all the way in comfort from one end of the rack to the other: there was no place else for him to go.
“Nice,” said George. “Do again.” He was glowing a happy pink.
Ritner, who seemed about to cry, petulantly kicked his machine. Alvarez snorted and went away. In the corridor, unseen, he jumped up and clicked his heels together. He was having a wonderful time; his only regret was that it was not tomorrow. Come to think of it, why wait till Wednesday?
Commandant Charles Watson Carver, S.S., had been trained to make quick and courageous decisions. Once you began to entertain a doubt of your own rightness, you would hesitate too much, begin to second-guess yourself, fall prey to superstition and anxiety, and end up without any power of decision at all.
The trouble was, you could never be right all the time. Following the book to the letter, or improvising brilliantly, either way, you were bound to make mistakes. The thing was, to cross them off and go ahead just the same.
Carver firmed his chin and straightened his back, looking down at the sick gorgon. It was sick, all right, there was no “question about that: the thing’s limbs drooped and weaved slightly, dizzily. Its hide was dry and hot to the touch. “How long has he been like this?” Carver demanded, hesitating only slightly over the “he”: aliens were “it” to him and always had been, but it didn’t do to let anybody know it.
“Twenty minutes, more or less,” said Dr. Nasalroad. “I just “got here myself”—he stifled a yawn—“about ten minutes ago.”
“What are you doing here, anyway?” Carver asked him. “It’s ,Alvarez’s shift.”
Nasalroad looked embarrassed. “I know. Alvarez is in the hospital, as a patient. I think he assaulted a cook’s helper named Samuels—poured soup over his head. He was shouting something about boiling the boil on Samuel’s neck. We had to put him under sedation; it took three of us.”
Carver set his jaw hard. “Nasalroad, what in thunder is happening on this wheel, anyhow? First this thing attacks my wife—then Alvarez—” He glared down at George. “Can you pull him out of this, whatever it is?”
Nasalroad looked surprised. “That would be a large order. We don’t know any gorgon medicine—I was assuming you’d want to beam down and ask them .”
That was reasonable, of course: the only hitch was, as usual, a matter of interpretation. Was this something they
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