"Hold Kieran's body outside. I'll check on this with Mexico City."
"Yes, sir."
Still angry, Meloni shot a message to Personnel at Mexico City. That
done, he forgot about it. The buck had been passed, let the boys sitting
on their backsides down on Earth handle it.
Colonel Hausman, second in command of Personnel Division of UNRC, was
the man to whom Meloni's message went. He snorted loudly when he read
it. And later, when he went in to report to Garces, the brigadier
commanding the Division, he took the message with him.
"Meloni must be pretty badly rattled by the crash," he said. "Look at
this."
Garces read the message, then looked up. "Anything to this? The Delhi
experiments, I mean?"
Hausman had taken care to brief himself on that point and was able to
answer emphatically.
"Damned little. Those chaps in Delhi have been playing around freezing
insects and thawing them out, and they think the process might be
developed someday to where it could revive frozen spacemen. It's an iffy
idea. I'll burn Meloni's backside off for bringing it up at a time like
this."
Garces, after a moment, shook his head. "No, wait. Let me think about
this."
He looked speculatively out of the window for a few moments. Then he
said,
"Message Meloni that this one chap's body--what's his name, Kieran?--is
to be preserved in space against a chance of future revival."
Hausman nearly blotted his copybook by exclaiming, "For God's sake--" He
choked that down in time and said, "But it could be centuries before a
revival process is perfected, if it ever is."
Garces nodded. "I know. But you're missing a psychological point that
could be valuable to UNRC. This Kieran has relatives, doesn't he?"
Hausman nodded. "A widowed mother and a sister. His father's been dead a
long time. No wife or children."
Garces said, "If we tell them he's dead, frozen in space and then
buried, it's all over with. Won't those people feel a lot better if we
tell them that he's _apparently_ dead, but might be brought back when a
revival-technique is perfected in the future?"
"I suppose they'd feel better about it," Hausman conceded. "But I don't
see--"
Garces shrugged. "Simple. We're only really beginning in space, you
know. As we go on, UNRC is going to lose a number of men, space-struck
just like Kieran. A howl will go up about our casualty lists, it always
does. But if we can say that they're only frozen until such time as
revival technique is achieved, everyone will feel better about it."
"I suppose public relations are important--" Hausman began to say, and
Garces nodded quickly.
"They are. See that this is done, when you go up to confer with Meloni.
Make sure that it gets onto the video networks, I want everyone to see
it."
Later, with many cameras and millions of people watching, Kieran's body,
in a pressure-suit, was ceremoniously taken to a selected position where
it would orbit the Moon. All suggestions of the funerary were carefully
avoided. The space-struck man--nobody at all referred to him as
"dead"--would remain in this position until a revival process was
perfected.
"Until forever," thought Hausman, watching sourly. "I suppose Garces is
right. But they'll have a whole graveyard here, as time goes on."
As time went on, they did.
2.
In his dreams, a soft voice whispered.
He did not know what it was telling him, except that it was important.
He was hardly aware of its coming, the times it came. There would be the
quiet murmuring, and something in him seemed to hear and understand, and
then the murmur faded away and there was nothing but the dreams again.
But were they dreams? Nothing had form or meaning. Light, darkness,
sound, pain and not-pain, flowed over him. Flowed over--who? Who was he?
He did not even know that. He did not care.
But he came to care, the question vaguely nagged him. He should try to
remember. There was more than dreams and the whispering voice. There
was--what? If he had one real thing to cling to, to put his feet on and
climb back from-- One thing like his name.
He had no name. He was no one. Sleep and forget it. Sleep and dream and
listen--
"Kieran."
It went across his brain like a shattering bolt of lightning, that word.
He did not know what the word was or what it meant but it found an echo
somewhere and his brain screamed it.
"Kieran!"
Not his brain alone, his voice was gasping it, harshly and croakingly,
his lungs seeming on fire as they expelled the word.
He was shaking. He had a body that could shake, that could feel pain,
that was feeling pain now. He tried to move, to break the nightmare, to
get back again to the vague dreams, and the soothing whisper.
He moved. His limbs thrashed leadenly, his chest heaved and panted, his
eyes opened.
He lay in a narrow bunk in a very small metal room.
He looked slowly around. He did not know this place. The gleaming white
metal of walls and ceiling was unfamiliar. There was a slight,
persistent tingling vibration in everything that was unfamiliar, too.
He was not in Wheel Five. He had seen every cell in it and none of them
were like this. Also, there lacked the persistent susurrant sound of the
ventilation pumps. Where--
_You're in a ship, Kieran. A starship._
* * * * *
Something back in his mind told him that. But of course it was
ridiculous, a quirk of the imagination. There weren't any starships.
_You're all right, Kieran. You're in a starship, and you're all right._
The emphatic assurance came from somewhere back in his brain and it was
comforting. He didn't feel very good, he felt dopey and sore, but there
was no use worrying about it when he knew for sure he was all right--
The hell he was all right! He was in someplace new, someplace strange,
and he felt half sick and he was not all right at all. Instead of lying
here on his back listening to comforting lies from his imagination, he
should get up, find out what was going on, what had happened.
Of a sudden, memory began to clear. What _had_ happened? Something, a
crash, a terrible coldness--
Kieran began to shiver. He had been in Section T2, on his way to the
lock, and suddenly the floor had risen under him and Wheel Five had
seemed to crash into pieces around him. The cold, the pain--
_You're in a starship. You're all right._
For God's sake why did his mind keep telling him things like that,
things he believed? For if he did not believe them he would be in a
panic, not knowing where he was, how he had come here. There was panic
in his mind but there was a barrier against it, the barrier of the
soothing reassurances that came from he knew not where.
He tried to sit up. It was useless, he was too weak. He lay, breathing
heavily. He felt that he should be hysterical with fear but somehow he
was not, that barrier in his mind prevented it.
He had decided to try shouting when a door in the side of the little
room slid open and a man came in.
He came over and looked down at Kieran. He was a young man,
sandy-haired, with a compact, chunky figure and a flat, hard face. His
eyes were blue and intense, and they gave Kieran the feeling that this
man was a wound-up spring. He looked down and said,
"How do you feel, Kieran?"