Fantastic Voyage

by Isaac Asimov

  “No, he isn’t,” said Owens. “What do you think we are? We’re miniaturized, with lungs the size of a bacterial fragment. The air on the other side of those membranes is unminiaturized. Each oxygen molecule in that air is almost large enough to see, damn it. Do you think we can take them into our lungs?”

  Grant looked non-plussed. “But …”

  “We can’t wait, Grant. You’ll have to get in touch with the control room.”

  Grant said, “Not yet. Didn’t you say this ship was originally meant for deep-sea research? What was it supposed to do underwater?”

  “We were hoping to miniaturize underwater specimens for carriage to the surface and investigation at leisure.”

  “Well, then, you must have miniaturization equipment on board. You didn’t pull it out last night, did you?”

  “Of course we have it. But only on a small scale.”

  “How large scale do we need it? If we lead air into the miniaturizer, we can reduce the size of the molecules and lead them into our air tanks.”

  “We don’t have the time for that,” put in Michaels.

  “If time runs out, then we’ll ask to be taken out. Until then, let’s try. You’ve got a snorkel on board I suppose, Owens.”

  “Yes.” Owens seemed completely confused at Grant’s rapid and urgent sentences.

  “And we can run such a snorkel through the capillary and lung walls without harming Benes, can’t we?”

  “At our size, I should certainly think so,” said Duval.

  “All right then, we run the snorkel from lung to ship’s miniaturizer and lead a tube from miniaturizer to the airreserve chamber. Can you improvise that?”

  Owens considered for a moment, seemed to catch fire at the prospect and said, “Yes, I think so.”

  “All right then, when Benes inhales there’ll be pressure enough to fill our tanks for us. Remember that time distortion will make our few minutes grace seem longer than it is on the unminiaturized scale. Anyway, we’ve got to try.”

  Duval said, “I agree. We must try. By all means. Now!”

  Grant said, “Thanks for the support, doctor.”

  Duval nodded, then said, “What’s more, if we’re going to try this, let’s not try to make a one-man job out of this. Owens had better stay at the controls, but I will come out with Grant.”

  “Ah,” said Michaels. “I was wondering what you were after. I see now. You want a chance at exploration in the open.”

  Duval flushed, but Grant broke in hastily, “Whatever the motive, the suggestion is good. In fact, we had better all come out. Except Owens, of course. —The snorkel is aft, I suppose.”

  “In the supply and storage compartment,” said Owens. He was back at the controls now, staring straight ahead. “If you’ve ever seen a snorkel, you won’t mistake it.”

  Grant moved hastily into the compartment, saw the snorkel at once and reached for the packaged underwater gear.

  Then he stopped in horror and shouted, “Cora!”

  She was behind him in a moment. “What’s the matter!”

  Grant tried not to explode. It was the first time he looked at the girl without an appreciative inner comment at her beauty. For the moment, he was merely agonized. He pointed and said, “Look at that!”

  She looked and turned a white face toward him, “I don’t understand.”

  The laser over the working counter was swinging loose on one hook, its plastic cover off.

  “Didn’t you bother securing it?” demanded Grant.

  Cora nodded wildly, “I did! I did secure it! I swear it. Heavens …”

  “Then how could it …”

  “I don’t know. How can I answer that?”

  Duval was behind her, his eyes narrowed and his face hard. He said, “What has happened to the laser, Miss Peterson?”

  Cora turned to meet the new questioner. “I don’t know. Why do you all turn on me? I’ll test it right now. I’ll check …”

  “No!” roared Grant. “Just put it down and make sure it won’t knock around any further. We’ve got to get our oxygen before we do anything else.”

  He began handing out the suits.

  Owens had come down from the bubble. He said, “The ship’s controls are locked in place. We won’t be going anywhere here in the capillary anyway. —My God, the laser!”

  “Don’t you start,” screamed Cora, eyes now swimming in tears.

  Michaels said, clumsily, “Now, Cora, it won’t help if you break down. Later, we’ll consider this carefully. —It must have been knocked loose in the whirlpool. Clearly an accident.”

  Grant said, “Captain Owens, connect this end of the snorkel to the miniaturizer. The rest of us will get into our suits and I hope someone shows me quickly how to get into mine. I’ve never tried this.”

  Reid said, “There’s no mistake? They’re not moving?”

  “No, sir,” came the technician’s voice. “They’re on the outer limits of the right lung and they’re staying there.”

  Reid turned to Carter. “I can’t explain it.”

  Carter stopped his angry pacing for a moment and jerked a thumb at the Time Recorder, which was reading 42. We’ve killed over a quarter of all the time available and we’re farther from that damn clot than when we started. We should have been out by now.”

  “Apparently,” said Reid, coldly, “we are laboring under a curse.”

  “And I don’t feel whimsical about it, either, colonel.”

  “Nor do I. But what am I supposed to feel in order to satisfy you.”

  “At least, let’s find out what’s holding them up.” He closed the appropriate circuit and said, “Contact the Proteus.”

  Reid said, “I suppose it’s some sort of mechanical difficulty.”

  “You suppose!” said Carter, with urgent sarcasm. “I don’t suppose they’ve just stopped for a quiet swim.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Lung

  The four of them, Michaels, Duval, Cora, and Grant, were in their swimsuits now—form-fitting, comfortable, and in antiseptic white. Each had oxygen cylinders strapped to the back, a flashlight on the forehead, fins on the feet and a radio transmitter and receiver at mouth and ear respectively.

  “It’s a form of skin diving,” said Michaels, adjusting the headgear, “and I’ve never gone skin diving. To have the first try at it in someone’s bloodstream …”

  The ship’s wireless tapped urgently.

  Michaels said, “Hadn’t you better answer that?”

  “And get into a conversation?” said Grant, impatiently. “There’ll be time for talk when we’re done. Here, help me.”

  Cora guided the plastic-shielded helmet over Grant’s head and snapped it into place.

  Grant’s voice, transmuted at once into the faintly distorted version that comes over a small radio, sounded in her ear, “Thanks, Cora.”

  She nodded at him dolefully.

  Two by two they used the escape hatch and precious air had to be consumed by forcing blood plasma out of the hatch each time.

  Grant found himself paddling in a fluid that was not even as clear as the water one would find on the average polluted beach. It was full of floating debris, flecks and bits of matter. The Proteus filled half the diameter of the capillary and past it red blood corpuscles nudged their way along with the periodic easier passage of the smaller platelets.

  Grant said uneasily, “If platelets break against the Proteus, we may form a clot.”

  “We may,” said Duval, “but it won’t be dangerous here; not in a capillary.”

  They could see Owens within the ship. He lifted his head and revealed an anxious face. He nodded and moved his hand without enthusiasm, trying to dodge and turn so as to be visible between and among the endlessly passing corpuscles. He put on the headgear of his own swimsuit and spoke into its transmitter.

  He said, “I think I’ve got it arranged here. Anyway, I’ve done my best. Are you ready to have me release the snorkel?”

  “Go ahead
,” said Grant.

  It came out of the special release hatch like a cobra coming out of a fakir’s basket at the sound of the pipes.

  Grant seized it.

  Michaels said, “Oh, heck,” in a sort of whisper. Then, more loudly, and in a tone that seemed saturated with chagrin, he said, “Consider how narrow the bore of that snorkel is, all of you. It looks as big around as a man’s arm, but how big is a man’s arm on our scale?”

  “What of it?” said Grant, shortly. He had a firm grip on the snorkel now and he put his back into moving with it toward the capillary wall, disregarding the soreness of his left biceps. “Grab hold, will you, and help pull.”

  Michaels said, “There’s no point to it. Don’t you understand? It should have occurred to me sooner, but the air won’t go through that thing.”

  “What?”

  “Not quickly enough. Unminiaturized air molecules are quite big compared to the opening in that snorkel. Do you expect air to leak through a tiny tube barely large enough to see through a microscope?”

  “The air will be under lung pressure.”

  “So what? Ever hear of a slow leak in an automobile tire? The hole through which air leaks in such a tire is probably no smaller than that and is under considerably more pressure than the lung can generate, and it’s a slow leak.” Michaels grimaced lugubriously. “I wish I had thought of this sooner.”

  Grant roared, “Owens!”

  “I hear you. Don’t crack every eardrum in existence.”

  “Never mind hearing me. Did you hear Michaels?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Is he right? You’re the nearest thing to a miniaturization expert we have. Is he right?”

  “Well, yes and no,” said Owens.

  “And what does that mean?”

  “It means, yes, the air will go through the snorkel only very slowly unless it is miniaturized and, no, we need not worry if I can succeed in miniaturizing it. I can extend the field through the snorkel and miniaturize the air on the other side and suck that through by …”

  “Won’t such a field extension affect us?” put in Michaels.

  “No, I’ll have it set for a fixed maximum of miniaturization and we’re there already.”

  “How about the surrounding blood and lung tissue?” asked Duval.

  “There’s a limit to how sharply selective I can make the field,” admitted Owens. “This is only a small miniaturizer I have here but I can confine it to gas. There’s bound to be some damage, however. I just hope it won’t be too much.”

  “We’ll have to chance it, that’s all,” said Grant. “Let’s get on with it. We can’t take forever.”

  With four pairs of arms encircling the snorkel and four pairs of legs pumping away, it reached the capillary wall.

  For a moment, Grant hesitated. “We’re going to have to cut through. —Duval!”

  Duval’s lips curved in a small smile. “There’s no need to call on the surgeon. At this microscopic level, you would do as well. There is no skill needed.”

  He drew a knife from a small scabbard at his waist, and looked at it. “It undoubtedly has miniaturized bacteria on it. Eventually, they will de-miniaturize in the bloodstream but the white cells will take care of them, then. Nothing pathogenic in any case, I hope.”

  “Please get on with it, doctor,” said Grant, urgently.

  Duval slashed quickly with his knife between two of the cells that made up the capillary. A neat slit opened. The thickness of the wall might be a ten-thousandth of an inch in the world generally, but on their own miniaturized scale the thickness amounted to several yards. Duval stepped into the slit and forced his way through, breaking stands of intercellular cement and cutting further. The wall was perforated at last and the cells drew apart, like the lips of a gaping wound.

  Through the wound could be seen another set of cells, at which Duval slashed neatly and with precision.

  He returned and said, “It’s a microscopic opening. There’ll be no loss of blood to speak of.”

  “No loss at all,” said Michaels emphatically. “The leakage is the other way.”

  And, indeed, a bubble of air seemed to bulge inward at the opening. It bulged further and then stopped.

  Michaels put his hand to the bubble. A portion of its surface pushed inward, but the hand did not go through.

  “Surface tension!” he said.

  “What now?” demanded Grant.

  “Surface tension, I tell you. At any liquid surface there is a kind of skin effect. To something as large as a human being, an unminiaturized human being, the effect is too small to be noticed, but insects can walk on water surfaces because of it. In our miniaturized state, the effect is even stronger. We may not be able to get beyond the barrier.

  Michaels drew his knife and plunged it into the fluid-gas interface as, a moment before, Duval had operated on the cells. The knife forced the interface forward into a point, then broke through.

  “It’s like cutting thin rubber,” said Michaels, panting a bit. He sliced downward and an opening appeared briefly but closed almost at once, healing itself.

  Grant tried the same thing, forcing his hand through the opening before it closed. He winced a bit as the water molecules closed in.

  “It’s got a grip on it, you know.”

  Duval said somberly, “If you calculated the size of those water molecules on our scale you’d be astonished. You could make them out with a hand lens. In fact …”

  Michaels said, “In fact, you’re sorry you didn’t bring a hand lens. I’ve got news for you, Duval, you wouldn’t see much. You would magnify the wave properties as well as the particle properties of atoms and subatomic particles. Anything you see, even by the reflection of miniaturized light, would be too hazy to do you much good.”

  Cora said, “Is that why nothing really looks sharp? I thought it was just because we were seeing things through blood plasma.”

  “The plasma is a factor, certainly. But in addition, the general graininess of the universe becomes much larger as we become much smaller. It’s like looking really closely at an old-fashioned newspaper photograph. You see the dots more clearly and it becomes hazy.”

  Grant was paying little attention to the conversation. His arm was through the interface and with it he was tearing away to make room for his other arm and his head.

  For a moment the fluid closed about his neck and he felt strangled.

  “Hold my legs, will you?” he called.

  Duval said, “I’ve got them.”

  Half his body was through now and he could look through the crevice Duval had made through the walls.

  “All right. Pull me down again.” He came down and the interface closed behind him with a popping sound.

  He said, “Now let’s see what we can do about the snorkel. Heave-ho.”

  It was quite useless. The blunt end of the snorkel made not a dent on the tightly knit skin of water molecules on the air bubble. Knives cut that skin to shreds so that parts of the snorkel got through but the instant the interface was left to itself, surface tension would reassert itself and the snorkel would pop out.

  Michaels was panting with effort. “I don’t think we’re going to make it.”

  “We’ve got to,” said Grant. “Look, I’m getting in; all the way in. When you push the snorkel through, I’ll grab whatever part makes it and pull. Between pushing and pulling …”

  “You can’t go in there, Grant,” said Duval. “You’ll be sucked in and lost.”

  Michaels said, “We can use a lifeline. Right here, Grant.” He indicated the neatly nested line at Grant’s left hip. “—Duval, take this back to the ship and attach it and we’ll get Grant through.”

  Duval took the end handed him, rather uncertainly, and swam back toward the ship.

  Cora said, “But how will you get back? Suppose you can’t push through the surface tension again?”

  “Sure, I will. Besides, don’t confuse the situation by taking up problem number 2
while problem number 1 is still with us.”

  Owens, within the ship, watched tensely as Duval swam up. “Do you need another pair of hands out there?” he asked.

  Duval said, “I don’t think so. Besides, your pair are needed at the miniaturizer.” He hitched the safety line to a small ring on the ship’s metal skin and waved his arm. “OK, Grant.”

  Grant waved back. His second penetration of the interface was more quickly done for he had the knack now. First a slit, then one arm (ouch, the bruised bicep), then the other; then a strenuous push against the interface with his arms, and a kick with his finned legs and he popped out like watermelon seed from between finger and thumb.

  He found himself between the two sticky walls of the intercellular slit. He looked down at Michaels’ face, clearly visible but somewhat distorted through the curve of the interface.

  “Push it through, Michaels.”

  Through the interface, he could make out a thrashing of limbs, the swing of an arm holding a knife. And then the blunt metal end of the snorkel made a partial appearance. Grant knelt and seized it. Bracing his back against one side of the crevice and his feet against the other, he pulled. The interface rose with it, clinging to it all about. Grant worked his way upward ahead of it, gasping out, “Push! Push!”

  It broke through, clear at last. Inside the tube of the snorkel was fluid, clinging motionlessly.

  Grant said, “I’m going to get it up through now, into the alveolus.”

  Michaels said, “When you get to the alveolus, be careful. I don’t know how you’ll be affected by inhalation and exhalation but you’re liable to find yourself in a hurricane.”

  Grant was moving upward, yanking at the snorkel as he found purchases in the soft yielding tissue for gripping fingers and kicking feet.

  His head rose beyond the alveolar wall and quite suddenly, he was in another world. The light from the Proteus penetrated through what seemed to him a vast thickness of tissue and in its muted intensity, the alveolus was a tremendous cavern, with walls that glinted moistly and distantly.

  About him were crags and boulders of all sizes and colors, sparkling iridescently, as the inefficient reflection of miniaturized light gave them all a spuriously beautiful luster. He could see now that the edges of the boulders remained hazy even without the presence of slowly swirling fluid to account for it.