"Then that's out. We run on 220 AC. And while I can rectify a few
watts, it wouldn't be enough to help. No welders except monatomic
hydrogen torches, even."
Pietro looked sicker than before. He'd obviously been counting on
that. But he turned to Bullard. "How about seeds? We had a crop of
tomatoes a month ago--and from the few I had, they're all seed. Are
any left?"
Bullard rocked from side to side, moaning. "Dead. We're all gonna be
dead. I told him, I did, you take me out there, I'll never get back.
I'm a good man, I am. I wasn't never meant to die way out here.
I--I--"
He gulped and suddenly screamed. He went through the door at an
awkward shuffle, heading for his galley. Muller shook his head, and
turned toward me. "Check up, will you, Mr. Tremaine? And I suggest
that you and Mr. Peters start your investigation at once. I understand
that chromazone would require so little hiding space that there's no
use searching for it. But if you can find any evidence, report it at
once."
Peters and I left. I found the galley empty. Apparently Bullard had
gone to lie on his stomach in his bunk and nurse his terror. I found
the freezer compartments, though--and the tomatoes. There must have
been a bushel of them, but Bullard had followed his own peculiar
tastes. From the food he served, he couldn't stand fresh vegetables;
and he'd cooked the tomatoes down thoroughly and run them through the
dehydrator before packing them away!
* * * * *
It was a cheerful supper, that one! Bullard had half-recovered and his
fear was driving him to try to be nice to us. The selection was good,
beyond the inevitable baked beans; but he wasn't exactly a chef at
best, and his best was far behind him. Muller had brought Wilcox,
Napier and Peters down to our mess with himself, to consolidate
forces, and it seemed that he was serious about cooperating. But it
was a little late for that.
Overhead, the fans had been stepped up to counteract the effect of
staleness our minds supplied. But the whine of the motors kept
reminding us our days were counted. Only Jenny was normal; she sat
between Muller and Pietro, where she could watch my face and that of
Napier. And even her giggles had a forced sound.
There were all kinds of things we could do--in theory. But we didn't
have that kind of equipment. The plain fact was that the plants were
going to lose the battle against our lungs. The carbon dioxide would
increase, speeding up our breathing, and making us all seem to
suffocate. The oxygen would grow thinner and thinner, once our
supplies of bottled gas ran out. And eventually, the air wouldn't
support life.
"It's sticky and hot," Jenny complained, suddenly.
"I stepped up the humidity and temperature controls," I told her. She
nodded in quick comprehension, but I went on for Muller's benefit.
"Trying to give the plants the best growing atmosphere. We'll feel
just as hot and sticky when the carbon dioxide goes up, anyhow."
"It must already be up," Wilcox said. "My two canaries are breathing
faster."
"Canaries," Muller said. He frowned, though he must have known of
them. It was traditional to keep them in the engine-room, though the
reason behind it had long since been lost. "Better kill them, Mr.
Wilcox."