by Ben Bova
“What has happened to Pascal?” Wo demanded.
The physician’s eyes flared angrily. But she turned back to her console lights and said, “It looks like cardiac arrest, but it might be an infarction or something else altogether. I just can’t make a definitive diagnosis on this meager data!”
“What has caused her to collapse?” Wo insisted.
“I don’t know!”
“Could it be from the high pressure they are exposed to?”
“Yes,” Buono said. It sounded almost desperate to Grant. “Or it could have nothing to do with the pressure.”
“Pah!” Wo smacked his hands on his emaciated thighs in frustration.
“Life-support systems are all in the green,” Frankovich reported, trying to relieve the tension. “At least, they were when Krebs fired off the data capsule.”
“What of it?” Wo snapped. “If Pascal is incapacitated, we must learn why.”
Incapacitated? Grant thought. What a bloodless way of putting it. Irene could be dead, for God’s sake.
A yellow light started to blink on Wo’s console: the communications indicator. He banged it with a heavy fist.
The wallscreen image immediately changed. It was Krebs again, but the picture was grainy, streaked with interference. But it was a real-time image; the submersible was in contact with the station again.
“We are forced to return to the station,” she said. “Please acknowledge.”
“Acknowledged,” Wo said, almost in a snarl.
“What is Dr. Pascal’s condition?” Buono asked.
Krebs blinked at the camera. “She is unconscious. We have placed her in her berth and put a breathing mask on her, to force extra perfluorocarbon into her lungs.”
Buono was working her keyboard swiftly, fingers almost a blur. Each of the crew had medical sensors fixed to their skin. Grant saw what he thought was an EKG trace on Buono’s console screen, but the green wormline tracing Irene’s heartbeat looked weak, irregular, to him.
“Put pressure cuffs on her legs and arms,” Buono ordered. “Keep the blood in her torso and head.”
There was a slight but noticeable delay in Krebs’s answer. Grant realized that Zheng He was still deep below the cloud deck.
“There are no pressure cuffs in the medical stores,” Krebs said.
Buono muttered something under her breath.
Grant leaned toward Frankovich and asked, “Is Irene going to die?”
Frankovich shrugged elaborately, said nothing.
Grant tried to look past Krebs’s dour, grim face to see the rest of the crew, but the camera was set at an angle that did not show them.
“Patti,” he called to the physician, “should you check on the monitors for the rest of the crew?”
Buono shot him a venomous glance. “And what good would that do?”
Grant had to admit she was right. There was nothing they could do to help the crew, not until they returned to the station.
“It’s all being recorded,” Buono added in a softer tone.
“Yeah, okay,” Grant said.
After more than six hours of communicating with Krebs, Wo told Grant, Quintero, and Ukara that they could leave the control center.
“But you are to consider yourselves on standby alert,” the director added. “Be ready to return to duty instantly.”
Slowly, tiredly, Grant slid out of his seat. Quintero sprang up, quick and lithe despite his bulk.
“Do you want me to bring you a tray?” Grant asked Frankovich.
“I’m not hungry,” he said.
“You’re going to be here for a long time,” Grant pointed out. “I’ll bring some sandwiches and something to drink.”
Frankovich conceded with a nod. “Maybe some fruit, too.”
“Right.” Grant started for the door.
“And remember,” Wo said sharply, “you are to discuss this incident with no one. No one! Understand me?”
The three of them nodded.
Grant headed for the cafeteria. He saw that it was early for dinner, yet a fair number of people were heading the same way he was. The line at the sandwich counter was short, though, and in quick order Grant filled his tray.
“Why so glum, chum?”
It was Tamiko Hideshi, grinning at him. It took Grant a moment to realize that, to all the hundreds of other people in the station, this was a perfectly normal workday. Nothing unusual was happening in their lives. Things were going along as always. They weren’t worried about a friend who might be dying in a ship beneath the clouds of Jupiter.
“Hi, Tami,” he said.
Nodding at his heavily laden tray, Hideshi said, “For a guy who’s stoking up for a picnic, you look awfully unhappy. What’s up with you?”
Grant shook his head. “I’ve got to get back to the control center.”
“The picnic’s in there?”
He stepped past her, offering over his shoulder, “It’s no picnic, believe me.”
RETURN
Even though he had been relieved of duty, Grant stayed in the control center, at his console. Under Krebs’s command, Zheng He rose through Jupiter’s turbulent atmosphere, a saucer-shaped aircraft instead of a submersible. Once above the clouds, Krebs lit the ship’s plasma rockets and Zheng He established itself in orbit, a spacecraft once again.
Buono never left her console. All the indicators from Pascal’s medical sensors showed that her condition was slowly deteriorating. It’s a race against time, Grant thought, to get her here where she can get proper medical care before she dies.
It took several orbits around the gigantic planet, many tense hours, before Zheng He was in position to start re-docking maneuvers. Krebs handled the tricky pas de deux flawlessly, and Grant thought he could feel the thump of the ship’s airlock connecting with the station’s access tube. It was nonsense and he knew it, but still he thought he caught a hint of a vibration down in his guts, a visceral affirmation that the crew had returned safely.
They loped down the main corridor, all pretense of secrecy forgotten, in their hurry to reach the access tunnel. Wo, in his powered wheelchair, scattered startled people like a bowling ball rolling through sentient pins capable of getting out of its way—just barely.
Despite himself, Grant grinned at the shouted curses and yells of anger that echoed along the corridor as he and the others sprinted after Wo’s speeding powerchair.
Wo was yelling into the chair’s built-in phone as he careened along the corridor. He was calling someone. Grant could make out the words “… security” and “… seal off the area …” Apparently the director wanted to make certain there were no gawkers at the access tunnel when they brought out the ship’s crew.
They skidded to a stop at the tunnel’s entry hatch. Sure enough, two burly security guards were standing there. And there were two more at the airlock hatch.
“You two get up to the entry area,” Wo commanded. “Clear the entire section of corridor between here and the infirmary.”
They hustled up the tunnel, leaving the five controllers and Dr. Wo facing the sealed airlock hatch.
“I’ve got to get in there,” Buono said, pushing herself up beside Wo in his chair. “The sooner—”
“You can’t go through,” the director said. “They’re in high-pressure fluid. You’re not equipped to breathe it.”
Buono’s jaw sagged open. “I’d forgotten …”
“They must be depressurized,” Wo went on. “The procedure will take several hours.”
“How will that affect Irene’s condition?” Ukara asked urgently.
Wo shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Who knows?”
“We know one thing,” Buono said gloomily. ‘The longer it takes to get her into the infirmary, the worse her chances will be.”
* * *
Pascal was the first one out of the hatch. Under Wo’s orders, telephoned into the pressurized airlock, Karlstad and Muzorawa placed the unconscious woman in the airlock and slowly pumped out the perf
luorocarbon liquid. They followed the preplanned procedure exactly, despite the urgency; it took the better part of an hour for her lungs to drain.
Patti Buono fidgeted nervously every instant of the wait. Grant saw that even Wo looked tense, almost frightened, his eyes darting back and forth like a trapped animal’s.
Once Krebs told them that the airlock was down to normal air pressure, Quintero swung the heavy hatch open. Irene Pascal lay limp and still, on her side, her electrode-studded legs folded to fit the cramped area of the airlock floor. Her skinsuited body looked cold and still dripped oily liquid. Grant could not tell if she was breathing.
Ukara leaped past the startled Quintero into the airlock and sank to her knees beside the prostrate body.
“She’s not breathing!” Kayla cried.
Patti Buono slapped an oxygen mask over the prostrate woman’s face. “Quick, help me carry her to the infirmary. Quickly!”
Quintero reached for Pascal, but Ukara pushed him away. “No!” she snapped. “Let me do it.”
She grasped the unconscious Pascal under the shoulders while Grant squeezed into the airlock and picked up her feet. Together they ran past the guards and down the corridor toward the infirmary. The corridor was completely empty except for them and Buono, her moccasins thumping on the thin carpeting as she tried to keep pace. Grant saw another trio of uniformed guards pacing up and down a few meters beyond the infirmary’s entrance.
And Sheena was knuckle-walking alongside them. What are they doing with her? Grant wondered as, puffing from the exertion, he helped Ukara carry Pascal’s limp body into the infirmary. A quartet of medics was already there. Buono pounded in behind them and immediately began shouting orders. Grant and Kayla were shooed away, back into the corridor, and the infirmary door slid firmly shut.
Wo was wheeling up the corridor, with Frankovich puffing along beside him. The director impatiently yanked open the infirmary door and rolled inside. Grant could see the team of green-gowned medics huddled over Pascal’s bed.
Frankovich stopped at the door, chest visibly heaving.
“What about the rest of the crew?” Grant asked.
“They’re okay,” said Frankovich. “Decompressing and coming through the airlock one at a time.”
The guard captain showed up, ducked into the infirmary for a few moments, then came out and shut the door again. He folded his arms across his chest and stood there with a stony expression on his face, the picture of inflexible authority, obviously intending to keep anyone else from entering the infirmary until Dr. Wo gave his permission.
Grant hesitated, not knowing what to do, where to go. He saw Sheena again, farther up the corridor, accompanying the guards. If the gorilla had noticed Grant, she gave no sign of it. She just shambled along on her knuckles, a dozen paces in one direction, then back the other way, like a soldier on guard duty.
Grant asked the taciturn guard captain, “Why is Sheena here?”
Barely moving his lips, the captain said, “We use her now and then for crowd control.”
“Crowd control? There isn’t any crowd here.”
“Ah, you see? It works.”
“Sheena shouldn’t be exposed to crowds,” Grant said.
The ghost of a smile flickered across the captain’s stern, hawk-nosed face. “It’s the other way around, rather. People are frightened of the ape.”
“She wouldn’t hurt anyone!”
“They don’t know that.”
Sheena wouldn’t hurt anyone, Grant repeated to himself. Not unless someone hurt her first.
The captain said flatly, “The director wants to keep this section clear. The gorilla discourages people from coming close.”
“I see.”
“You ought to be leaving now,” said the captain.
“I want to wait here,” Ukara said.
“All of you, on your way,” the captain insisted. “There’s nothing more for you to do here.”
Ukara snarled, her hands arching into red-tipped claws. For an instant Grant thought she was going to leap at the guard captain, a coiled steel panther attacking a stolid, well-muscled buffalo.
Then Frankovich touched her arm and said, “He’s right, Kayla. Let’s go help the others.”
Ukara visibly shuddered. But she turned away from the captain and followed Frankovich down the corridor, back toward the airlock, in the direction opposite Sheena.
Still unmoved, the guard captain jabbed a finger at Grant’s chest. “You, too. On your way.”
Grant took a deep breath and walked toward the three uniformed guards patrolling with Sheena. The gorilla stopped her shuffling walk when she saw Grant approaching.
“Hello, Sheena,” he said softly. The small burned patch of hair on her skull looked a deliberate brand of shame to Grant.
The gorilla stared at him out of deep-brown, red-rimmed eyes. “Grant,” she said.
Grant held out his hand, palm up, as if begging. The guards watched with amused grins.
“Are we still friends, Sheena?”
“Grant hurt Sheena.”
“I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.”
“Hurt.”
“I’m sorry.”
Sheena looked down at Grant’s hand, still outstretched toward her. At last she said, “You go now.”
“Sheena, I want to be your friend again,” Grant pleaded.
“You go!”
“But, Sheena—”
The gorilla shook her head, a gesture that involved her massive shoulders, as well. “You go!”
Defeated, Grant let his hand drop and turned his back to Sheena. As he walked away, he heard one of the guards stage-whisper, “Would you believe it? A lovers’ quarrel with an overgrown monkey!”
One by one, the crew of Zheng He came through the airlock. Karlstad and O’Hara were already out in the access tunnel, wrapped in blankets. Lane looked sad, close to tears. Egon was hollow-eyed, all his old snide cockiness wiped from his face.
The hatch sighed open and Muzorawa stepped through, sucking in big chestfuls of air, oily liquid still dripping from the tip of his nose and running in thin rivulets down his neck and arms.
Kayla Ukara threw a blanket around Zeb’s shoulders.
“Thanks,” he said, shivering visibly. “This is the first time I’ve felt warm since we went into the soup.”
“Are you all right?” Grant asked.
“Yes. I believe so. No injuries. How’s Irene?”
“Don’t know,” Frankovich answered. “We ran her down to the infirmary. Patti’s working on her.”
“What happened?” Ukara asked.
Zeb shook his head. “I’m not certain. We had entered the ocean … at least, the sensors indicated the outside environment was in the liquid state.”
“Who was on duty?”
“We all were. Krebs wanted us all connected to the ship’s systems until we were cruising at our first depth objective.”
“Irene was connected, then?”
“Yes,” said Muzorawa. “Everything seemed completely normal, but she suddenly gave a scream and doubled over, almost into a fetal posture.”
“Krebs said she’d complained of chest pains,” Frankovich pointed out.
“Yes, that’s true. She seemed to lose her physical coordination, but that isn’t unusual when the pressurization starts to rise. It happens to all of us. It’s a temporary thing.”
“Then she doubled over?” Grant asked.
“Yes. I think she had a heart attack.”
Frankovich scratched his balding pate. “She had a clean bill of health, though. No indicators of cardiovascular problems.”
Muzorawa made a helpless little shrug. “It’s different down there, my friend. Very different.”
They stayed by the airlock, talking, guessing, worrying, until the hatch slid open again and Christel Krebs stepped through, blinking uncertainly, like a burrowing animal exposed to unaccustomed light.
“Where is Pascal?” she asked, her voice sharp, cut
ting.
“In the infirmary,” Grant said.
“Take me there. Immediately.” And she extended her hand to Grant like a blind person asking to be led.
“WITH YOUR SHIELD …”
Grant got only as far as the security guards stationed at the access tunnel’s entrance. One of them took Krebs up the corridor, toward the infirmary, while another told the rest of them to follow him. He walked the group to the small conference room that they had been using as a wardroom.
The guard captain was already there, standing at the head of the oval conference table.
“Dr. Wo wants you to stay here until further orders,” he told them.
“What about dinner?” Frankovich bleated. “We haven’t had anything to eat all day, just about.”
The captain eyed Frankovich disdainfully. “We’ll bring in dinner trays for you a bit later on. For now, you remain here. The director’s orders. No exceptions.”
He left and closed the door firmly.
Karlstad puffed out a breath. “That’s the longest speech I’ve ever heard from old eagle-beak.”
“We’re prisoners,” said Ukara, scowling at the idea.
Grant wanted to try the door, but realized that even if it was not locked, there would be guards posted in the corridor. Maybe even Sheena was out there.
Abruptly the door slid open. Startled, Grant jumped back.
Krebs stepped into the room, stopped, peered at Grant as if she could barely see him. She was fully dressed in a turtleneck sweater and jeans.
“How is Irene?” O’Hara asked. She and the others had not been able to put on fresh clothes. They still held blankets wrapped around themselves.
Krebs turned toward the sound of her voice. “They are still trying to revive her.” She limped to the table, leaned both hands on it. “We are to remain here until Dr. Wo can talk with us.”
“Well,” said Muzorawa, clutching his blanket, “I suppose we should follow the ancient dictum: When handed a lemon, make lemonade.”
And he pulled out one of the molded plastic chairs from the table and sat down. The chair creaked slightly.
Krebs made her way to the head of the table as the others took chairs for themselves. Instead of sitting, though, she remained on her feet.
