“Kris,” she whispered, “what’s happening to us?”
I gave an involuntary sigh of frustration with everything that had been happening since the previous night: “Everything is fine. Why?”
“I want to talk.”
“All right, I’m listening.”
“Not like this.”
“What? You know I have a head-ache, and that’s not the least of my worries . . .”
“You’re not being fair.”
I forced myself to smile; it must have been a poor imitation: “Go ahead and talk, darling, please.”
“Will you tell me the truth?”
“Why should I lie?” This was an ominous beginning.
“You might have your reasons . . . it might be necessary . . . But if you want . . . Look, I am going to tell you something, and then it will be your turn – only no half-truths. Promise!” I could not meet her gaze. “I’ve already told you that I don’t know how I came to be here. Perhaps you do. Wait! – perhaps you don’t. But if you do know, and you can’t tell me now, will you tell me one day, later on? I couldn’t be any the worse for it, and you would at least be giving me a chance.”
“What are you talking about, child,” I stammered. “What chance?”
“Kris, whatever I may be, I’m certainly not a child. You promised me an answer.”
Whatever I may be . . . my throat tightened, and I stared at Rheya shaking my head like an imbecile, as if forbidding myself to hear any more.
“I’m not asking for explanations. You only need to tell me that, you are not allowed to say.”
“I’m not hiding anything,” I croaked.
“All right.”
She stood up. I wanted to say something. We could not leave it at that. But no words would come. “Rheya . . .”
She was standing at the window, with her back turned. The blue-black ocean stretched out under a cloudless sky.
“Rheya, if you believe . . . You know very well I love you . . .”
“Me?”
I went to put my arms round her, but she pulled away.
“You’re too kind,” she said. “You say you love me? I’d rather you beat me.”
“Rheya, darling!”
“No, no, don’t say any more.”
She went back to the table and began to clear away the plates. I gazed out at the ocean. The sun was setting, and the Station cast a lengthening shadow that danced on the waves. Rheya dropped a plate on the floor. Water splashed in the sink. A tarnished golden halo ringed the horizon. If I only knew what to do . . .if only . . . Suddenly there was silence. Rheya was standing behind me.
“No, don’t turn round,” she murmured. “It isn’t your fault, I know. Don’t torment yourself.”
I reached out, but she slipped away to the far side of the room and picked up a stack of plates: “It’s a shame they’re unbreakable. I’d like to smash them, all of them.”
I thought for a moment that she really was going to dash them to the floor, but she looked across at me and smiled: “Don’t worry, I’m not going to make scenes.”
In the middle of the night, I was suddenly wide awake. The room was in darkness and the door was ajar, with a faint light shining from the corridor. There was a shrill hissing noise, interspersed with heavy, muffled thudding, as if some heavy object was pounding against a wall. A meteor had pierced the shell of the Station! No, not a meteor, a shuttle, for I could hear a dreadful labored whining . . . .
I shook myself. It was not a meteor, nor was it a shuttle. The sound was coming from somebody at the end of the corridor. I ran down to where light was pouring from the door of the little work-room, and rushed inside. A freezing vapor filled the room, my breath fell like snow, and white flakes swirled over a body covered by a dressing-gown, stirring feebly then striking the floor again. I could hardly see through the freezing mist. I snatched her up and folded her in my arms, and the dressing-gown burnt my skin.
Rheya kept on making the same harsh gasping sound as I stumbled along the corridor, no longer feeling the cold, only her breath on my neck, burning like fire.
I lowered Rheya onto the operating table and pulled the dressing-gown open. Her face was contorted with pain, the lips covered by a thick, black layer of frozen blood, the tongue a mass of sparkling ice crystals.
Liquid oxygen . . . The Dewar bottles in the work-room contained liquid oxygen. Splinters of glass had crunched underfoot as I carried Rheya out. How much of it had she swallowed? It didn’t matter. Her trachea, throat and lungs must be burnt away – liquid oxygen corrodes flesh more effectively than strong acids. Her breathing was more and more labored, with a dry sound like tearing paper. Her eyes were closed. She was dying.
I looked across at the big, glass-fronted cabinets, crammed with instruments and drugs. Tracheotomy? Intubation? She had no lungs! I stared at shelves full of colored bottles and cartons. She went on, gasping hoarsely, and a wisp of vapor drifted out of her open mouth.
Thermophores . . .
I started looking for them, then changed my mind, ran to another cupboard and turned out boxes of ampoules. Now a hypodermic – where are they? – here – needs sterilizing. I fumbled with the lid of the sterilizer, but my numb fingers had lost all sensation and would not bend.
The harsh rattle grew louder, and Rheya’s eyes were open when I reached the table. I opened my mouth to say her name but my voice had gone and my lips would not obey me. My face did not belong to me; it was a plaster mask.
Rheya’s ribs were heaving under the white skin. The ice-crystals had melted and her wet hair was entangled in the headrest. And she was looking at me.
“Rheya!” It was all I could say. I stood paralyzed, my hands dangling uselessly, until a burning sensation mounted from my legs and attacked my lips and eyelids.
A drop of blood melted and slanted down her cheek. Her tongue quivered and receded. The labored panting went on.
I could feel no pulse in her wrist, and put my ear against her frozen breast. Faintly, behind the raging blizzard, her heart was beating so fast that I could not count the beats, and I remained crouched over her, with my eyes closed. Something brushed my head – Rheya’s hand in my hair. I stood up.
“Kris!” A harsh gasp.
I took her hand, and the answering pressure made my bones creak. Then her face screwed up with agony, and she lost consciousness again. Her eyes turned up, a guttural rattle tore at her throat, and her body arched with convulsions. It was all I could do to keep her on the operating table; she broke free and her head cracked against a porcelain basin. I dragged her back, and struggled to hold her down, but violent spasms kept jerking her out of my grasp. I was pouring with sweat, and my legs were like jelly. When the convulsions abated, I tried to make her lie flat, but her chest thrust out to gulp at the air. Suddenly her eyes were staring out at me from behind the frightful blood-stained mask of her face. “Kris . . . how long . . . how long?” She choked. Pink foam appeared at her mouth, and the convulsions racked her again. With my last reserves of strength I bore down on her shoulders, and she fell back. Her teeth chattered loudly.
“No, no, no,” she whimpered suddenly, and I thought that death was near.
But the spasms resumed, and again I had to hold her down. Now and then she swallowed drily, and her ribs heaved. Then the eyelids half closed over the unseeing eyes, and she stiffened. This must be the end. I did not even try to wipe the foam from her mouth. A distant ringing throbbed in my head. I was waiting for her final breath before my strength failed and I collapsed to the ground.
She went on breathing, and the rasp was now only a light sigh. Her chest, which had stopped heaving, moved again to the rapid rhythm of her heartbeat. Color was returning to her cheeks. Still I did not realize what was happening. My hands were clammy, and I heard as if through layers of cotton wool, yet the ringing sound continued. Rheya’s eyelids moved, and our eyes met.
I could not speak her name from behind the mask of my face. All I could do was look at her.
She turned her head and looked round the room. Somewhere behind me, in another world, a tap dripped. Rheya levered herself up on her elbow. I recoiled, and again our eyes met.