Doctor Ames nodded quickly. "Vomiting, dizziness, tremors, excess
sweating--what did you expect, man? You put yourself under this strain,
not knowing what comes next, having to land with an empty stomach,
skipping meals and loading your stomach with pills--and probably no
sleep! Those symptoms are perfectly normal."
He was at the tiny galley equipment, fixing quick food as he spoke. But
his face was still sober. He was probably thinking of the same thing
that worried Bill--an empty stomach didn't make the itching rash, the
runny nose and eyes, and the general misery that had begun the whole
thing.
He sorted through the stock of replacement parts, a few field-sistors,
suit wadding, spare gloves, cellophane-wrapped gadgets. Then he had it.
Ames was over, urging him toward the cot, but he shook him off.
"Got to get the dust out of here--dust'll make the itching worse.
Moon dust is sharp, Doc. Just install new brushes.... Where are those
instructions? Yeah, insert the cat's fur brushes under the.... _Cat_'s
fur? Is _that_ what they use, Doc?"
"Sure. It's cheap and generates static electricity. Do you expect
sable?"
Bill took the can of soup and sipped it without tasting or thinking,
his hand going toward a fresh place that itched. His nose began
running, but he disregarded it. He still felt lousy, but strength was
flowing through him, and life was almost good again.
He tossed the bunk back into its slot, lifted the pilot's stool, and
motioned Ames forward. "You operate a key--hell, I _am_ getting slow.
You can contact Luna Base by phone, have them relay. There. Now tell
'em I'm blasting off pronto for Earth, and I'll be down in four hours
with their plans."
"You're crazy." The words were flat, but there was desperation on the
little doctor's face. He glanced about hastily, taking the microphone
woodenly. "Adams, they'll have an atomic bomb up to blast you out
before you're near Earth. They've got to protect themselves. You
can't...."
Bill scratched, but there was the beginning of a grin on his face.
"Nope, I'm not delirious now, though I damn near cracked up. You
figured out half the symptoms. Take a look at those brushes--cat's fur
brushes--and figure what they'll do to a man who was breathing the air
and who is allergic to cats! All I ever had was some jerk in Planning
who didn't check my medical record with trip logistics! I never had
these symptoms until I unzipped the traps and turned 'em on. It got
better whenever I was in the suit, breathing canned air. We should have
known a man can't catch a disease from plants."
The doctor looked at him, and at the fur pieces he'd thrown into a
wastebin, and the whiteness ran from his face. He was seeing his own
salvation, and the chuckle began weakly, gathering strength as he
turned to the microphone.
"Cat asthma--simple allergy. Who'd figure you'd get that in deep space?
But you're right, Bill. It figures."
Bill Adams nodded as he reached for the controls, and the tubes began
firing, ready to take them back to Earth. Then he caught himself and
swung to the doctor.
"Doc," he said quickly, "just be sure and tell them this isn't to get
out. If they'll keep still about it, so will I."
He'd make a hell of a hero on Earth if people heard of it, and he could
use a little of a hero's reward.
No catcalls, thanks.