White, James – Sector General 05 – Sector General

back from the bows of the wreck and the other a similar distance from the stern,

although it was impossible to say just then which was which, and he had learned

that there were another two viewports in identical positions on the side hidden

from him.

He could also see the loose, transparent folds of Tyrell’s portable airlock

clinging to the hull like a wrinkled limpet and, beside it, the tiny figure of

what could only be the scoutship’s Orligian medic, Krach-Yul.

Fletcher, Mufchison, and Conway landed beside the Orli­gian. They did not speak

and they tried hard not to think so that Prilicla, who was slowly circling the

distressed vessel, would be able to feel for survivors with the minimum of

emo­tional interference. If anything lived inside that wreck, no mat­ter how

faintly the spark of life glowed, the little empath would detect it.

“This is very strange, friend Conway,” said Prilicla after nearly fifteen

minutes had passed and they were all radiating feelings of impatience in spite

of themselves. “There is life on board, one source only, and the emotional

radiation is so very faint that I cannot locate it with accuracy. And contrary

to what I would expect in these circumstances, there are no indications that the

survivor is in a distressed condition.”

“Could the survivor be an infant?” Krach-Yul asked, “Left in a safe place by

adults who perished, and too young to realize that there is danger?”

Prilicla, who never disagreed with anyone because to do so might give rise to

unpleasant emotional radiation from the other party, said, “The possibility

cannot be dismissed, friend Krach-Yul.”

“An embryo, then,” Murchison said, “who still lives within its dead parent?”

“That is not impossible, either, friend Murchison,” Prilicla replied.

“Which means,” the Pathologist said, laughing, “that you don’t think much of

that idea, either.”

“But there is a survivor,” the Captain said impatiently, “so let’s go in and get

it out.”

Fletcher wriggled through the double seal of the portable airlock and under the

folds of tough, transparent plastic which, when inflated, would form a chamber

large enough for them to work at extricating the survivor and, if necessary,

provide emergency treatment. Murchison and Conway, meanwhile, spenf several

minutes at each of the tiny viewports, which were so deeply recessed that their

helmet lights showed only areas of featureless leathery tegument.

When they joined the Captain in the lock, Fletcher said, “There are only so many

ways of opening a door. It can hinge inward or outward, unscrew in either

direction, slide open, or dilate. The actuator for this one appears to be a

simple recessed lever which—Oh!”

The large metal hatch was swinging open. Conway tensed, waiting to feel the

outward rush of the ship’s air tugging at his suit and inflating the portable

lock, but nothing else happened. The Captain grasped the edge with both hands,

detached his foot magnets so that his legs swung away from the hull, and drew

his head deep inside the opening. “This isn’t an airlock but a simple access

hatch to mechanisms and systems situated between the inner and outer hulls. I

can see cable runs, plumb­ing, and what looks like a—”

“I need an air sample,” Murchison said, “quickly.” “Sorry, ma’am,” Fletcher

said. He let go with one hand and pointed carefully, then went on, “It seems

obvious that only the inner hull is airtight. It should be safe enough for you

if you site your drill in the angle between that support bracket and cable loom

just there. I don’t know how efficient their insulation is, but that cable is

too thin to carry much power. The color coding suggests that their visual range

is similar to ours, wouldn’t you say?”

“I would,” Murchison agreed.

Conway said quickly, “If you use a Five drill it will be wide enough to take an

Eye.”

“I intend doing that,” she said dryly.

The drill whirred briefly, the sound conducted through the metal of the hull and

the fabric of Conway’s suit, and a sample of the ship’s atmosphere hissed

through the hollow drill-head and into the analyzer.

“The pressure is a little low by our standards,” she reported quietly, “but that