* * * * *
It struck Scotty Johnson, then, how very much alone he was.
He felt a chill go down his spine, and he turned his eyes about the
tiny chamber. Forward, within arm's length, was the dull glint of metal
panelling and coiled wires and tight atmosphere sealing. His small wiry
body sank against the deep couch, and he drew the safety webbing across
his chest and thighs, the chill in his mind deepening. Above him was
another pad of soft material to protect his head; his feet were lodged
against a solid bar at the foot of the couch. Inevitably, he thought
of a cocoon. A tight, soft, warm cocoon. And he was alone inside it--
He tried to think when, in all his thirty-four years, he had been so
completely and utterly alone.
He sat very still, listening. All about him was silence. A muted,
deathly silence. His head-set pressed tight against his ears, and he
shook his head, wondering if he had actually heard the words coming
into his ears a few seconds before. Zero minus thirty minutes. Thirty
minutes to wait, alone--