I mean, are you a higher being, or a higher consciousness?
Higher than what?
Higher than me, I suppose.
How high are you?
Pretty low. At least, I imagine so.
Well, then, that’s your trouble.
Riding in the foam, he is disturbed by the possibility that God is making fun of him. He thinks, Are you making a joke?
[[333]] Why do you ask if you already know the answer?
Am I talking to God?
You are not talking at all.
You take what I say very literally. Is this because you are from another planet?
No.
Are you from another planet?
No.
Are you from another civilization?
No.
Where are you from?
Why do you ask if you already know the answer?
In another time, he thinks, he would be irritated by this repetitive answer, but now he feels no emotions. There are no judgments. He is simply receiving information, a response. He thinks, But this sphere comes from another civilization.
Yes.
And maybe from another time.
Yes.
And aren’t you a part of this sphere?
I am now.
So, where are you from?
Why do you ask if you already know the answer?
The foam gently shifts him, rocking him soothingly.
Are you still there?
Yes. There is nowhere to go.
I’m afraid I am not very knowledgeable about religion. I am a psychologist. I deal with how people think. In my training, I never learned much about religion.
Oh, I see.
Psychology doesn’t have much to do with religion.
Of course.
So you agree?
I agree with you.
That’s reassuring.
I don’t see why.
Who is I?
Who indeed?
[[334]] He rocks in the foam, feeling a deep peace despite the difficulties of this conversation.
I am troubled, he thinks.
Tell me.
I am troubled because you sound like Jerry.
That is to be expected.
But Jerry was really Harry.
Yes.
So are you Harry, too?
No. Of course not.
Who are you?
I am not a who.
Then why do you sound like Jerry or Harry?
Because we spring from the same source.
I don’t understand.
When you look in the mirror, who do you see?
I see myself.
I see.
Isn’t that right?
It’s up to you.
I don’t understand.
What you see is up to you.
I already know that. Everybody knows that. That is a psychological truism, a cliché.
I see.
Are you an alien intelligence?
Are you an alien intelligence?
I find you difficult to talk to. Will you give me the power?
What power?
The power you gave to Harry and Beth. The power to make things happen by imagination. Will you give it to me?
No.
Why not?
Because you already have it.
I don’t feel as if I have it.
I know.
Then how is it that I have the power?
How did you get in here?
I imagined the door opening.
[[335]] Yes.
Rocking in the foam, waiting for a further response, but there is no response, there is only gentle movement in the foam, a peaceful timelessness, and a drowsy sensation.
After a passage of time, he thinks, I am sorry, but I wish you would just explain and stop speaking in riddles.
On your planet you have an animal called a bear. It is a large animal, sometimes larger than you, and it is clever and has ingenuity, and it has a brain as large as yours. But the bear differs from you in one important way. It cannot perform the activity you call imagining. It cannot make mental images of how reality might be. It cannot envision what you call the past and what you call the future. This special ability of imagination is what has made your—species as great as it is. Nothing else. It is not your ape—nature, not your tool-using nature, not language or your violence or your caring for young or your social groupings. It is none of these things, which are all found in other animals. Your greatness lies in imagination.
The ability to imagine is the largest part of what you call intelligence. You think the ability to imagine is merely a useful step on the way to solving a problem or making something happen. But imagining it is what makes it happen.
This is the gift of your species and this is the danger, because you do not choose to control your imaginings. You imagine wonderful things and you imagine terrible things, and you take no responsibility for the choice. You say you have inside you both the power of good and the power of evil, the angel and the devil, but in truth you have just one thing inside you—the ability to imagine.
I hope you enjoyed this speech, which I plan to give at the next meeting of the American Association of Psychologists and Social Workers, which is meeting in Houston in March. I feel it will be quite well received.
What? he thinks, startled.
Who did you think you were talking to? God?
Who is this? he thinks.
You, of course.
But you are somebody different from me, separate. You are not me, he thinks.
[[336]] Yes l am. You imagined me.
Tell me more.
There is no more.
His cheek rested on cold metal. He rolled onto his back and looked at the polished surface of the sphere, curving above him. The convolutions of the door had changed again.
Norman got to his feet. He felt relaxed and at peace, as if he had been sleeping a long time. He felt as if he had had a wonderful dream. He remembered everything quite clearly.
He moved through the ship, back to the flight deck, and then down the hallway with the ultraviolet lights to the room with all the tubes on the wall.
The tubes were filled. There was a crewman in each one. Just as he thought: Beth had manifested a single crewman—a solitary woman—as a way of warning them. Now Norman was in charge, and he found the room full.
Not bad, he thought.
He looked at the room and thought: Gone, one at a time. One by one, the crew members in the tubes vanished before his eyes, until they were all gone.
Back, one at a time.
The crew members popped back in the tubes, materializing on demand.
All men.
The women were changed into men.
All women.
They all became women.
He had the power.
0200 HOURS
“Norman.”
Beth’s voice over the loudspeakers, hissing through the empty spacecraft.
“Where are you, Norman? I know you’re there somewhere. I can feel you, Norman.”
Norman was moving through the kitchen, past the empty cans of Coke on the counter, then through the heavy door and into the flight deck. He saw Beth’s face on all the console screens, Beth seeming to see him, the image repeated a dozen times.
“Norman. I know where you’ve been. You’ve been inside the sphere, haven’t you, Norman?”
He pressed the consoles with the flat of his hand, trying to turn off the screens. He couldn’t do it; the images remained.
“Norman. Answer me, Norman.”
He moved past the flight deck, going toward the airlock. “It won’t do you any good, Norman. I’m in charge now. Do you hear me, Norman?”
In the airlock, he heard a click as his helmet ring locked; the air from the tanks was cool and dry. He listened to the even sound of his own breathing.
“Norman.” Beth, on the intercom in his helmet. “Why don’t you speak to me, Norman? Are you afraid, Norman?” The repetition of his name irritated him. He pressed the buttons to open the airlock. Water began to flood in from the floor, rising swiftly.
“Oh, there you are, Norman. I see you now.” And she began to laugh, a high, cackling laugh.
Norman turned around, saw the video camera mounted on the robot, still inside the airlock. He shoved the camera, spinning it away.
“That won’t do any good, Norman.”
He was back outside the spacecraft, standing by the air lock. The Tevac explosives, rows of glowing red dots, [[338]] extended away in erratic lines, like an airplane runway laid out by some demented engineer.
“Norman? Why don’t you answer me, Norman?”
Beth was unstable, erratic. He could hear it in her voice. He had to deprive her of her weapons, to turn off the explosives, if he could.
Off, he thought. Let’s have the explosives off and disarmed.
All the red lights immediately went off.
Not bad, he thought, with a burst of pleasure. A moment later, the red lights blinked back on.
“You can’t do it, Norman,” Beth said, laughing. “Not to me. I can fight you.”
He knew she was right. They were having an argument, a test of wills, turning the explosives on and off. And the argument couldn’t ever be resolved. Not that way. He would have to do something more direct.
He moved toward the nearest of the Tevac explosives. Up close, the cone was larger than he had thought, four feet high, with a red light at the top.
“I can see you, Norman. I see what you’re doing.”
There was writing on the cone, yellow letters stenciled on the gray surface. Norman bent to read it. His faceplate was slightly fogged, but he could still make out the words.
DANGER – TEVAC EXPLOSIVES
U.S.N. CONSTRUCTION/DEMOLITION USE ONLY
DEFAULT DETONATE SEQUENCE 20:00
CONSULT MANUAL USN/VV/512-A
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
DANGER-TEVAC EXPLOSIVES
There was still more writing beneath that, but it was smaller, and he couldn’t make it out.
“Norman! What’re you doing with my explosives, Norman?”
Norman didn’t answer her. He looked at the wiring. One thin cable ran into the base of the cone, and a second cable ran out. The second cable went along the muddy bottom to [[339]] the next cone, where there were again just two cables—one in, and one out.
“Get away from there, Norman. You’re making me nervous.
One cable in, and one cable out.
Beth had wired the cones together in series, like Christmas-tree bulbs! By pulling out a single cable, Norman would disconnect the entire line of explosives. He reached forward and gripped the cable in his gloved hand.
“Norman! Don’t touch that wire, Norman!”
“Take it easy, Beth.”
His fingers closed around the cable. He felt the soft plastic coating, gripped it tightly.
“Norman, if you pull that cable you’ll set off the explosives. I swear to you—it’ll blow you and me and Harry and everything to hell, Norman.”
He didn’t think it was true. Beth was lying. Beth was out of control and she was dangerous and she was lying to him again.
He drew his hand back. He felt the tension in the cable.
“Don’t do it, Norman. …
The cable was now taut in his hand. “I’m going to shut you down, Beth.”
“For God’s sake, Norman. Believe me, will you? You’ll kill us all!”
Still he hesitated. Could she be telling the truth? Did she know about wiring explosives? He looked at the big gray cone at his feet, reaching up to his waist. What would it feel like if it exploded? Would he feel anything at all?
“The hell with it,” he said aloud.
He pulled the cable out of the cone.
The shriek of the alarm, ringing inside his helmet, made him jump. There was a small liquid-crystal display at the top of his faceplate blinking rapidly: “EMERGENCY”… “EMERGENCY”…
“Oh, Norman. God damn it. Now you’ve done it.”
He barely heard her voice over the alarm. The red cone [[340]] lights were blinking, all down the length of the spacecraft. He braced himself for the explosion.
But then the alarm was interrupted by a deep, resonant male voice that said, “Your attention, please. Your attention, please. All construction personnel clear the blast area immediately. Tevac explosives are now activated. The countdown will begin … now. Mark twenty, and counting.”
On the cone, a red display flashed 20:00. Then it began counting backward: 19:59 … 19:58 …
The same display was repeated on the crystal display at the top of his helmet.
It took him a moment to put it together, to understand. Staring at the cone, he read the yellow lettering once again: U.S.N. CONSTRUCTION/DEMOLITION USE ONLY.
Of course! Tevac explosives weren’t weapons, they were made for construction and demolition. They had built-in safety timers—a programmed twenty-minute delay before they went off, to allow workers to get away.
Twenty minutes to get away, he thought. That would give him plenty of time.
Norman turned, and began striding quickly toward DH-7 and the submarine.
0140 HOURS
He walked evenly, steadily. He felt no strain. His breath came easily. He was comfortable in his suit. All systems working smoothly.
He was leaving. “Norman, please …” Now Beth was pleading with him, another erratic shift of [[341]] mood. Norman ignored her. He continued on toward the submarine. The deep recorded voice said, “Your attention, please. All Navy personnel clear the blast area. Nineteen minutes and counting.”
Norman felt an enormous sense of purposefulness, of power. He had no illusions any more. He had no questions. He knew what he had to do.
He had to save himself.
“I don’t believe you’re doing this, Norman. I don’t believe you’re abandoning us.”
Believe it, he thought. After all, what choice did he have? Beth was out of control and dangerous. It was too late to save her now—in fact, it was crazy to go anywhere near her. Beth was homicidal. She’d already tried to kill him once, and had nearly succeeded.
And Harry had been drugged for thirteen hours; by now he was probably clinically dead, brain-dead. There was no reason for Norman to stay. There was nothing for him to do.
The sub was close now. He could see the fittings on the yellow exterior.
“Norman, please … I need you.”
Sorry, he thought. I’m getting out of here.
He moved around beneath the twin propellor screws, the name painted on the curved hull, Deepstar III. He climbed the footholds, moving up into the dome.
“Norman—”
Now he was out of contact with the intercom. He was on his own. He opened the hatch, climbed inside the submarine. He unlocked his helmet, pulled it off.
“Your attention, please. Eighteen minutes and counting.” Norman sat in the pilot’s padded seat, faced the controls. The instruments blinked on, and the screen directly before him glowed.
DEEPSTAR III – COMMAND MODULE
Do you require help?
Yes No Cancel
[[342]] He pressed “YES.” He waited for the next screen to flash up.
It was too bad about Harry and Beth; he was sorry to leave them behind. But they had both, in their own ways, failed to explore their inner selves, thus making them vulnerable to the sphere and its power. It was a classic scientific error, this so-called triumph of rational thought over irrational thought. Scientists refused to acknowledge their irrational side, refused to see it as important. They dealt only with the rational. Everything made sense to a scientist, and if it didn’t make sense, it was dismissed as what Einstein called the “merely personal.”
The merely personal, he thought, in a burst of contempt. People killed each other for reasons that were “merely personal.”
DEEPSTAR III – CHECKLIST OPTIONS
Descend Ascend
Secure Shutdown
Monitor Cancel
Norman pressed “ASCEND.” The screen changed to the drawing of the instrument panel, with the flashing point. He waited for the next instruction.
Yes, he thought, it was true: scientists refused to deal with the irrational. But the irrational side didn’t go away if you refused to deal with it. Irrationality didn’t atrophy with disuse. On the contrary, left unattended, the irrational side of man had grown in power and scope.
And complaining about it didn’t help, either. All those scientists whining in the Sunday supplements about man’s inherent destructiveness and his propensity for violence, throwing up their hands. That wasn’t dealing with the irrational side. That was just a formal admission that they were giving up on it.
[[343]] The screen changed again:
DEEPSTAR III – ASCEND CHECKLIST
1. Set Ballast Blowers To: On
Proceed To Next Cancel
Norman pushed buttons on the panel, setting the ballast blowers, and waited for the next screen.
After all, how did scientists approach their own research? The scientists all agreed: scientific research can’t be stopped. If we don’t build the bomb, someone else will. But then pretty soon the bomb was in the hands of new people, who said, If we don’t use the bomb, someone else will.
At which point, the scientists said, those other people are terrible people, they’re irrational and irresponsible. We scientists are okay. But those other people are a real problem.
Yet the truth was that responsibility began with each individual person, and the choices he made. Each person had a choice.
Well, Norman thought, there was nothing he could do for Harry or Beth any longer. He had to save himself.
He heard a deep hum as the generators turned on, and the throb of the propellors. The screen flashed:
DEEPSTAR III – PILOT INSTRUMENTS ACTIVATED
Here we go, he thought, resting his hands confidently on the controls. He felt the submarine respond beneath him. “Your attention, please. Seventeen minutes and counting.” Muddy sediment churned up around the canopy as the screws engaged, and then the little submarine slipped out from beneath the dome. It was just like driving a car, he thought. There was nothing to it.
He turned in a slow arc, away from DH-7, toward DH-8. He was twenty feet above the bottom, high enough for the screws to clear the mud.
There were seventeen minutes left. At a maximum ascent rate of 6.6 feet per second—he did the mental calculation quickly, effortlessly—he would reach the surface in two and a half minutes.
There was plenty of time.
He moved the submarine close to DH-8. The exterior [[344]] habitat floodlights were yellow and pale. Power must be dropping. He could see the damage to the cylinders—streams of bubbles rising from the weakened A and B Cylinders; the dents in the D; and the gaping hole in E Cyl, which was flooded. The habitat was battered, and dying.
Why had he come so close? He squinted at the portholes, then realized he was hoping to catch sight of Harry and Beth, one last time. He wanted to see Harry, unconscious and unresponsive. He wanted to see Beth standing at the window, shaking her fist at him in maniacal rage. He wanted confirmation that he was right to leave them.
But he saw only the fading yellow light inside the habitat. He was disappointed.
“Norman.”
“Yes, Beth.” He felt comfortable answering her now. He had his hands on the controls of the submarine, ready to make his ascent. There was nothing she could do to him now. “Norman, you really are a son of a bitch.”
“You tried to kill me, Beth.”
“I didn’t want to kill you. I had no choice, Norman.”
“Yeah, well. Me, too. I have no choice.” As he spoke, he knew he was right. Better for one person to survive. Better than nothing.
“You’re just going to leave us?”
“That’s right, Beth.”
His hand moved to the ascent-rate dial. He set it to 6.6 feet. Ready to ascend.
“You’re just going to run away?” He heard the contempt in her voice.
“That’s right, Beth.”
“You, the one who kept talking about how we had to stay together down here?”
“Sorry, Beth.”
“You must be very afraid, Norman.”
“I’m not afraid at all.” And indeed he felt strong and confident, setting the controls, preparing for his ascent. He felt better than he had felt for days.
“Norman,” she said.
“Please help us. Please.”
Her words struck him at some deep level, arousing feelings [[345]] of caring, of professional competence, of simple human kindness. For a moment he felt confusion, his strength and conviction weakened. But then he got a grip on himself, and shook his head. The strength flew back into his body.
“Sorry, Beth. It’s too late for that.”
And he pressed the “ASCEND” button, heard the roar as the ballast tanks blew, and Deepstar III swayed. The habitat slipped away below him, and he started toward the surface, a thousand feet above.
Black water, no sense of movement except for the readings on the glowing green instrument panel. He began to review the events in his mind, as if he were already facing a Navy inquiry. Had he done the right thing, leaving the others behind?
Unquestionably, he had. The sphere was an alien object which gave a person the power to manifest his thoughts. Well and good, except that human beings had a split in their brains, a split in their mental processes. It was almost as if men had two brains. The conscious brain could be consciously controlled, and presented no problem. But the unconscious brain, wild and abandoned, was dangerous and destructive when its impulses were manifested.
The trouble with people like Harry and Beth was that they were literally unbalanced. Their conscious brains were overdeveloped, but they had never bothered to explore their unconscious. That was the difference between Norman and them. As a psychologist, Norman had some acquaintance with his unconscious. It held no surprises for him.
That was why Harry and Beth had manifested monsters, but Norman had not. Norman knew his unconscious. No monsters awaited him.
No. Wrong.
He was startled by the suddenness of the thought, the abruptness of it. Was he really wrong? He considered carefully, and decided once again that he was correct after all. Beth and Harry were at risk from the products of their [[346]] unconscious, but Norman was not. Norman knew himself; the others did not.
“The fears unleashed by contact with a new life form are not understood. The most likely consequence of contact is absolute terror.”
The statements from his own report popped into his head. Why should he think of them now? It had been years since he had written his report.
“Under circumstances of extreme terror, people make decisions poorly.”
Yet Norman wasn’t afraid. Far from it. He was confident and strong. He had a plan, he was carrying it out. Why should he even think of that report? At the time, he’d agonized over it, thinking of each sentence. … Why was it coming to mind now? It troubled him.
“Your attention, please. Sixteen minutes and counting.” Norman scanned the gauges before him. He was at nine hundred feet, rising swiftly. There was no turning back now. Why should he even think of turning back?
Why should it enter his mind?
As he rose silently through black water, he increasingly felt a kind of split inside himself, an almost schizophrenic internal division. Something was wrong, he sensed. There was something he hadn’t considered yet.
But what could he have overlooked? Nothing, he decided, because, unlike Beth and Harry, I am fully conscious; I am aware of everything that is happening inside me.
Except Norman didn’t really believe that. Complete awareness might be a philosophical goal, but it was not really attainable. Consciousness was like a pebble that rippled the surface of the unconscious. As consciousness widened, there was still more unconsciousness beyond. There was always more, just beyond reach. Even for a humanistic psychologist.
Stein, his old professor: “You always have your shadow.”
What was Norman’s shadow side doing now? What was happening in the unconscious, denied parts of his own brain? Nothing. Keep going up.
He shifted uneasily in the pilot’s chair. He wanted to go to the surface so badly, he felt such conviction. …
[[347]] I hate Beth. I hate Harry. I hate worrying about these people, caring for them. I don’t want to care any more. It’s not my responsibility. I want to save myself. I hate them. I hate them.
He was shocked. Shocked by his own thoughts, the vehemence of them.
I must go back, he thought. If I go back I will die.
But some other part of himself was growing stronger with each moment. What Beth had said was true: Norman had been the one who kept saying that they had to stay together, to work together. How could he abandon them now? He couldn’t. It was against everything he believed in, everything that was important and human.
He had to go back.
I am afraid to go back.
At last, he thought. There it is. Fear so strong he had denied its existence, fear that had caused him to rationalize abandoning the others.
He pressed the controls, halting his ascent. As he started back down, he saw that his hands were shaking.
0130 HOURS
The sub came to rest gently on the bottom beside the habitat. Norman stepped into the submarine airlock, flooded the chamber. Moments later, he climbed down the side and walked toward the habitat. The Tevac explosives’ cones with their blinking red lights looked oddly festive.
“Your attention, please. Fourteen minutes and counting.” He estimated the time he would need. One minute to get inside. Five, maybe six minutes to dress Beth and Harry in [[348]] the suits. Another four minutes to reach the sub and get them aboard. Two or three minutes to make the ascent.
It was going to be close. He moved beneath the big support pylons, under the habitat.
“So you came back, Norman,” Beth said, over the intercom.
“Yes, Beth.”
“Thank God,” she said. She started to cry. He was beneath A Cyl, hearing her sobs over the intercom. He found the hatch cover, spun the wheel to open it. It was locked shut.
“Beth, open the hatch.”
She was crying over the intercom. She didn’t answer him.
“Beth, can you hear me? Open the hatch.”
Crying like a child, sobbing hysterically. “Norman,” she said. “Please help me. Please.”
“I’m trying to help you, Beth. Open the hatch.”
“I can’t.”
“What do you mean, you can’t?”
“It won’t do any good.”
“Beth,” he said. “Come on, now… .”
“I can’t do it, Norman.”
“Of course you can. Open the hatch, Beth.”
“You shouldn’t have come back, Norman.”
There was no time for this now. “Beth, pull yourself together. Open the hatch.”
“No, Norman, I can’t.”
And she began crying again.
He tried all the hatches, one after another. B Cyl, locked. C Cyl, locked. D Cyl, locked.
“Your attention, please. Thirteen minutes and counting.” He was standing by E Cyl, which had been flooded in an earlier attack. He saw the gaping, jagged tear in the outer cylinder surface. The hole was large enough for him to climb through, but the edges were sharp, and if he tore his suit …
[[349]] No, he decided. It was too risky. He moved beneath E Cyl. Was there a hatch?
He found a hatch, spun the wheel. It opened easily. He pushed the circular lid upward, heard it clang against the inner wall.
“Norman? Is that you?”
He hauled himself up, into E Cyl. He was panting from the exertion, on his hands and knees on the deck of E Cyl. He shut the hatch and locked it again, then took a moment to get his breath.
“Your attention, please. Twelve minutes and counting.”
Jesus, he thought. Already?
Something white drifted past his faceplate, startling him. He pulled back, realized it was a box of corn flakes. When he touched it, the cardboard disintegrated in his hands, the flakes like yellow snow.
He was in the kitchen. Beyond the stove he saw another hatch, leading to D Cyl. D Cyl was not flooded, which meant that he must somehow pressurize E Cyl.
He looked up, saw an overhead bulkhead hatch, leading to the living room with the gaping tear. He climbed up quickly. He needed to find gas, some kind of tanks. The living room was dark, except for the reflected light from the floodlights, which filtered in through the tear. Cushions and padding floated in the water. Something touched him and he spun and saw dark hair streaming around a face, and as the hair moved he saw part of the face was missing, torn away grotesquely.
Tina.
Norman shuddered, pushed her body away. It drifted off, moving upward.
“Your attention, please. Eleven minutes and counting.” It was all happening too fast, he thought. There was hardly enough time left. He needed to be inside the habitat now. No tanks in the living room. He climbed back down to the kitchen, shutting the hatch above. He looked at the stove, the ovens. He opened the oven door, and a burst of gas bubbled out. Air trapped in the oven.
But that couldn’t be right, he thought, because gas was still [[350]] coming out. A trickle of bubbles continued to come from the open oven.
A steady trickle.
What had Barnes said about cooking under pressure? There was something unusual about it, he couldn’t remember exactly. Did they use gas? Yes, but they also needed more oxygen. That meant
He pulled the stove away from the wall, grunting with exertion, and then he found it. A squat bottle of propane, and two large blue tanks.
Oxygen tanks.
He twisted the Y-valves, his gloved fingers clumsy. Gas began to roar out. The bubbles rushed up to the ceiling, where the gas was trapped, the big air bubble that was forming.
He opened the second oxygen tank. The water level fell rapidly, to his waist, then his knees. Then it stopped. The tanks must be empty. No matter, the level was low enough.
“Your attention, please. Ten minutes and counting.” Norman opened the bulkhead door to D Cyl, and stepped through, into the habitat.
The light was dim. A strange green, slimy mold covered the walls.
On the couch, Harry lay unconscious, the intravenous line still in his arm. Norman pulled the needle out with a spurt of blood. He shook Harry, trying to rouse him.
Harry’s eyelids fluttered, but he was otherwise unresponsive. Norman lifted him, put him over his shoulder, carried him through the habitat.
On the intercom, Beth was still crying. “Norman, you shouldn’t have come.”
“Where are you, Beth?”
On the monitors, he read:
DETONATION SEQUENCE 09:32.
Counting backward. The numbers seemed too to move fast.
[[351]] “Take Harry and go, Norman. Both of you go. Leave me behind.”
“Tell me where you are, Beth.”
He was moving through the habitat, from D to C Cyl. He didn’t see her anywhere. Harry was a dead weight on his shoulder, making it difficult to get through the bulkhead doors.
“It won’t do any good, Norman.”
“Come on, Beth. …”
“I know I’m bad, Norman. I know I can’t be helped.”
“Beth …” He was hearing her through the helmet radio, so he could not locate her by the sound. But he could not risk removing his helmet. Not now.
“I deserve to die, Norman.”
“Cut it out, Beth.”
“Attention, please. Nine minutes and counting.”
A new alarm sounded, an intermittent beeping that became louder and more intense as the seconds ticked by.
He was in B Cyl, a maze of pipes and equipment. Once clean and multicolored, now the slimy mold coated every surface. In some places fibrous mossy strands hung down. B Cyl looked like a jungle swamp.
“Beth …”
She was silent now. She must be in this room, he thought. B Cyl had always been Beth’s favorite place, the place where the habitat was controlled. He put Harry on the deck, propped him against a wall. But the wall was slippery and Harry slid down, banged his head. He coughed, opened his eyes.
“Jesus. Norman?”
Norman held his hand up, signaling Harry to be quiet.
“Beth?” Norman said.
No answer. Norman moved among the slimy pipes.
“Beth?”
“Leave me, Norman.”
“I can’t do that, Beth. I’m taking you, too.”
“No. I’m staying, Norman.”
“Beth,” he said, “there’s no time for this.”
“I’m staying, Norman. I deserve to stay.”
[[352]] He saw her.