He walked carefully, in no hurry to repeat the unnerving
teleportation jump. In the main companionway he was way-
laid by a junior officer almost at once.
“Excuse me, sir. I have a report here from the ship’s
surgeon. Dr. Hoyle said it might be urgent and that I’d better
bring it to you personally.”
“Oh. All right, what is it?”
“Dr. Hoyle’s compliments, sir, and he suggests that oxygen
tension be checked. He has an acute surgical emergencya
passengerwhich suggests that we may be running close to
nine thousand.”
Arpe tried to think about this, but it did not convey very
much to him, and what it did convey was confusing. He
knew that space ships, following a tradition laid down long
ago in atmospheric flight, customarily expressed oxygen ten-
sion in terms of feet of altitude on Earth; but 9000 feet
though it would doubtless cause some discomfort-did not
seem to represent a dangerously low concentration. And he
could, see no connection at all between a slightly depleted
oxygen level and an acute surgical emergency. Besides, he was
too flustered over Celia Gospardi.
The interview had not ended at all the way he had hoped.
But perhaps it was better to have left her grief-stricken than
panic-stricken. Of course, if she broadcast her grief all over
the ship, there were plenty of other people to receive it,
people who had causes for grief as real as hers.
“Grief inactivates,” Oestreicher said as Arpe re-entered the
bridge. “Even at its worst, it doesn’t create riots. Cheer up,
sir. I couldn’t have done any better, I’m sure of that.”