When the pressure popped and Star Queen’s hatch opened, Sparta was standing in front of it, alone.
The smell from inside the ship was an assault. Nevertheless she inhaled deeply, tasted the air with her tongue.
She learned things from the flavor of the air that no subsequent tests could have told her.
Almost a minute passed before, rising from the depths of the ship, a haggard man drifted into the circle of light.
He paused while still inside Star Queen, just shy of the docking tube. He took a deep, shuddering breath—and another —and then he let his watery eyes focus on Sparta.
“We’re happy to have you safe with us, Mr. McNeil,”
she said.
He watched her for a moment, then nodded.
“My name’s Ellen Troy. I’m from the Board of Space Control. I’ll be going with you while the medics assist you.
I must ask you not to speak to anyone but me, until I give you permission—no matter who asks, or what they ask. Is that acceptable to you, sir?”
Wearily, McNeil nodded again.
“If you will move toward me, sir . . .”
McNeil did as he was told. When he was clear of the hatch Sparta darted past him and twisted the handle of the exterior lock. The massive outer door slid closed, seating itself with a palpable thud. Sparta pushed her hand into the right thigh pocket of her cargo pants and pulled out a bright red flexible plastic disk, which she slapped over the rim of the hatch—sealing it like a lump of wax over the flap of an envelope. She turned and took McNeil by the arm. “Come with me, please.”
Viktor Proboda was blocking the tube exit. “Inspector Troy, it is my understanding that this man is to be placed under arrest, and that the ship is to be inspected without delay.”
“You are mistaken, Inspector Proboda.” Good, she was thinking, he didn’t use the word “orders,” as in “my orders are . . .”—which meant that she could put off the inevitable confrontation a little longer. “Mr. McNeil is to be extended every courtesy. I’m taking him to the clinic now. When he feels up to it, he and I will talk. Until then, no one—not anyone—is to enter Star Queen.” Her gaze had not left Proboda’s pale blue eyes. “I’m confident you’ll be diligent in carrying out Central’s orders, Viktor.”
It was an old trick, but he was surprised when she used his first name, as she’d intended. This slender girl was perhaps twenty-five, he was well into his thirties, and he’d struggled a decade to achieve his rank—but her easy as- sumption of authority was genuine, and Proboda, a good soldier, recognized it. “As you say,” he gruffly conceded.
Sparta guided engineer McNeil, who seemed on the point of nodding off, to the waiting medics. One of them clamped an oxygen mask over McNeil’s face: McNeil’s expression was that of a man taking a drink of cold water after a week in the tropical sun. Sparta repeated her injunction to the medics about talking to the media; they would disobey her, of course, but not until she had left McNeil’s side.
The little group emerged from the security lock.
McNeil, with an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, guided by medics, with Sparta and Proboda bringing up the rear, ran the gauntlet of frantic questions. . . .
But, after another week of waiting, the media had only the arrival of Star Queen and the confirmation of McNeil’s survival to add to the electrifying radio message that had initiated their death watch. The broadcast had been as succinct as it was chilling: “This is Star Queen, Commander Peter Grant speaking.
Engineering officer Angus McNeil and I have jointly concluded that there is sufficient oxygen now remaining for one man and one man only to live until our ship docks at Port Hesperus. Therefore one of us must die if either of us is to live. We have mutually agreed to decide the matter with a single draw of playing cards. Whoever draws the low card will take his own life.”
A second voice had spoken: “McNeil here, confirmin’ that I’m in agreement with everything the commander says.”
The radiolink had been silent then, for several seconds, except for the shuffle and snap of playing cards. Then Grant came back on the air. “This is Grant. I’ve drawn the low card. I want to make it clear that what I’m about to do is the result of my personal decision, freely undertaken.
To my wife and children, I should like to affirm my love for them; I’ve left letters for them in my cabin. A final request: I wish to be buried in space. I’m going to put my suit on now, before I do anything else. I’m asking Officer McNeil to put me out the lock when it’s all over and send me away from the ship. Please don’t search for my body.”
Aside from routine automated telemetry, that was the last anyone had heard from Star Queen until today.
The Port Hesperus clinic was in the station’s halfgee torus. An hour after his arrival McNeil lay propped up between clean sheets. His color was rosy, although the dark circles under his eyes remained and the once full flesh of his cheeks hung in folds. He was a much thinner man than he had been when he left Earth. There had been more than enough food on Star Queen, but for the last few days under deceleration he’d had hardly enough energy to drag himself to the galley.
He’d just begun to remedy that lack with a dinner of medium-rare Chateaubriand, accompanied by puff potatoes and garden vegetables, and preceded by a crisp green salad with a light herb vinaigrette and accompanied by a half-bottle of velvety California Zinfandel—all of which had been laid on by the Board of Space Control according to Sparta’s instructions.
She knocked lightly on the door, and when he said “Come in” she entered the room, followed by the brooding Proboda.
“I hope everything was all right?” she asked. The salad was gone but the Chateaubriand was only half eaten and many of the vegetables were untouched. Not so the wine; bottle and glass were empty. McNeil was wreathed in tobacco smoke, halfway through a pungent unfiltered cigarette.
“It was delicious, Inspector, simply delicious, and I’m sorry to let the rest go. But I’m afraid my stomach’s shrunk—that bit just filled me up.”
“That’s certainly understandable, sir. Well, if you feel rested . . .”
McNeil smiled patiently. “Aye, there’ll be lots of questions now, won’t there be?”
“If you’d rather we came back later . . .”
“No point in putting off the inevitable.”
“We sincerely appreciate your cooperation. Inspector Proboda will record our conversation.”
When everyone was settled McNeil launched into his tale. He spoke quite calmly and impersonally, as if he were relating some adventure that had happened to another person, or indeed had never happened at all—which, Sparta suspected, was to some extent the case, although it would be unfair to suggest that McNeil was lying. He wasn’t making anything up. She would instantly have detected that from the rhythm of his speech, but he was leaving a good deal out of his well-rehearsed narrative.
When, after several minutes, he’d finished speaking, Sparta sat thoughtfully in silence. Then she said, “That seems to wrap it up, then.” She turned to Proboda. “Are there any points you’d like to explore further, Inspector?”
Again Proboda was caught by surprise—any points he’d like to explore? He’d already resigned himself to a passive role in the investigation. “One or two,” he said, clearing his throat, “as a matter of fact.”
McNeil drew on his cigarette. “Have at me,” he said with a cynical grin.
“Now, you say you lost your grip—I believe those were your words—when the meteoroid or whatever it was struck the ship? What exactly did you do?”
McNeil’s pale features darkened. “I blubbered—if you want to know the details. Curled up in my cabin like a little boy with a skinned knee and let the tears come. Grant was a better man than I, calm as could be throughout it all. But I hadn’t been a meter away from the oxygen tanks when they exploded, you see—just the other side of the wall in fact—loudest damn noise I’ve heard in my life.”
“How did you happen to be at just that place at just that moment?” Proboda asked.
“Well, I’d been down doing the periodic check on the temperature and humidity in Hold A. The top compartment of that hold’s pressurized and temperature-controlled because we’re carrying things like specialty foods, cigars and so forth, organics—whereas in the vacuum holds we’ve got inert stuff, machinery mostly. I’d just come up through the hold airlock and I was in that part of the central corridor that passes through the life support deck, on my way up to the flight deck, when—blam.”