“Must be a lotta sizzle outside,” she said. Dan thought she sounded worried. Not her usual sassy self. Or maybe she’s just tired. Or bored. How can anybody be bored with this storm only a meter over our heads? Dan asked himself. Some storm. No thunder and lightning. No noise at all, unless you count the crackle and hiss when you try to use the radio.
Quiet. Deadly quiet.
Dan found the water nipple in his suit’s collar and took a sip. Flat and warm. Like recycled piss.
More than seven hours to go. I’ll go bonkers by then: stark, raving nutty.
Then he tasted blood in his mouth.
It was like an electric shock. His entire body flinched. Everything else disappeared from his mind.
Bleeding gums, he thought, trying to fight down the terror rising in him. One of the prime symptoms of radiation sickness.
Or maybe you accidentally bit your tongue, he told himself. Yeah, sure, answered that sardonic voice in his head. You’ve had a bout of radiation sickness before, you know the drill. Only this time there’s no place to go to, nothing to do except sit here in this grave and let the radiation do its job on you.
“Pancho,” he croaked, surprised at how dry his throat was.
“Right here, boss.”
“Can you turn on your suit’s recorder?”
“Yeah, I think so…”
Dan sensed her fumbling in the dirt. This must be the way moles live, he thought, depending on touch instead of sight. His stomach was fluttering, nauseous. Christ, don’t let me toss my cookies inside the double-damned helmet, he begged silently.
Pancho said, “Testing, one, two, three.” A moment later he heard the words repeated.
“Okay, the recorder’s workin’.”
“Good,” said Dan. “Get this down.” He cleared his throat. It felt raw, raspy. Then, in as normal a voice as he could produce, he pronounced:
“I am Dan Randolph, CEO of Astro Manufacturing Corporation. This is my last will and testament. The recording equipment will automatically mark this statement with the date and time.”
“That’s right,” Pancho said.
“Don’t interrupt, kid. Where was I? Oh, right, last will and testament. I hereby bequeath all my stock in Astro Corporation to my friend and loyal employee, Priscilla Lane, together—”
Pancho was so shocked she didn’t even bristle at the use of her proper name. “To me? Are you loco?”
“Don’t interrupt!” Dan snapped. “All my Astro stock to Priscilla Lane, together with all my personal belongings and possessions.” He had to stop and take a few breaths. Then, “And I nominate Priscilla Lane to take my place on the board of directors of Astro Corporation.”
He thought about it for a few moments, then nodded, satisfied. “Okay, that’s it. You can turn off the recorder now.”
“What’d you do that for? How come you—”
“I’m not going to make it, kid,” Dan said tiredly. “The radiation’s getting to me. I want you to take my place on the board of directors and fight that sumbitch Humphries with every gram of strength you’ve got.”
“Me? I’m just a hick engineer… a rocket jock, for cryin’ out loud.”
“You’re my heir, Pancho. Like a daughter. I don’t have any family to leave anything to, and besides, you know Astro as well as anyone does.”
“Not the board of directors.”
Dan laughed weakly. “You’ll roll right over them, kid. The board needs some fresh, young blood. You’ll have to fight Humphries, of course. He’ll want to be made chairman once I’m gone.”
In a quieter voice, Pancho asked, “You’re talkin’ like you’re at death’s door.”
“I think I am. My gums are bleeding. I feel woozy. My ears are ringing. I just hope I don’t get the shits.”
“The storm’s almost over,” she said.
“So am I.”
“Once we get back into the ship we can zip back to Selene in a couple of days. Maybe faster! I can goose her up to maybe half a g.”
“And how will you brake her? Impact? Dive right into Alphonsus?”
Pancho fell silent for several moments. Dan was glad she couldn’t see him. The way his insides felt, his hands would probably be shaking like a palsied old man’s if they weren’t buried in the asteroid’s rubble.