"I wanted to be sure," she said.
She beckoned to Nona, who was standing near. Together they went
forward, where the spacesuits were kept.
Cameron scowled puzzledly and started to follow. Jordan waved the
toaster around.
"All right," said the doctor, stopping. He rubbed his chin. "What is
she thinking about?"
"I wouldn't know," said Docchi. "She's not scientifically trained, if
that's what you mean. But she has a good mind, as good as her body
once was."
"And how good was that?"
"We don't talk about it," said Jordan shortly.
* * * * *
It was a long time before the women came back--if the weird creature
that floated into the control compartment with Nona _was_ Anti.
Cameron stared at her and saw shudderingly that it was. "You need a
session with the psycho-computer," he said. "When we get back, that's
the first thing we do. Can't you understand...."
"Be quiet," growled Jordan. "Now, Anti, explain what you've rigged
up."
"Any kind of pressure is good enough as far as the outside of the body
is concerned," answered Anti, flipping back the helmet. "Mechanical
pressure will do as well as air pressure. I had Nona cut the
spacesuits into strips and wind them around me--hard. Then I found a
helmet that would fit over my head when the damaged part was cut away.
It won't hold much air pressure, even taped very tight to my skin. But
as long as it's pure oxygen--"
"It might be satisfactory," admitted Docchi. "But the temperature?"
"Do you think I'm going to worry about cold?" asked Anti. "Me? Way
down below all this flesh?"
"Listen to me," said Cameron through his teeth. "You've already
seriously threatened my career with all this childish nonsense. I
won't permit you to ruin it altogether by a deliberate suicide."
"You and your stinking career," retorted Jordan tiredly. "We're not
asking your permission to do anything." He turned away from the
doctor. "You understand the risk, Anti? It's possible that it won't
work at all."
"I've thought about it," Anti replied soberly. "On the other hand,
I've thought about the asteroid."
"All right," said Jordan. Docchi nodded. Nona bobbed her head; it was
doubtful that she knew what she was agreeing to.
"Let's have some telecom viewers outside," said Docchi. "One directly
in back, one on each side. We've got to know what's happening."
Jordan went to the control panel and flipped levers. "They're out and
working," he said, gazing at the screen. "Now, Anti, go to the freight
lock. Close your helmet and wait. I'll let the air out slowly. The
pressure change will be gradual. If anything seems wrong, let me know
over the helmet radio and I'll yank you in immediately. Once you're
outside I'll give you further instructions. Tools and equipment are in
a compartment that opens into space."
Anti waddled away.
Jordan looked down at his legless body. "I suppose we have to be
realistic about it--"
"We do," answered Docchi. "Anti is the only one of us who has a chance
of doing the job and surviving."
Jordan adjusted a dial. "It was Cameron who was responsible for it.
If Anti doesn't come back, you can be damn sure he'll join her."
"No threats, please," said Docchi. "When are you going to let her
out?"
"She's out," said Jordan. Deliberately, he had diverted their
attention while he had taken the burden of emotional strain.
Docchi glanced hastily at the telecom. Anti was hanging free in space,
wrapped and strapped in strips torn from the useless spacesuits--that,
and more flesh than any human had ever borne. The helmet sat jauntily
on her head; the oxygen cylinder was strapped to her back. She was
still intact.
"How is she?" he asked anxiously, unaware that the microphone was
open.
"Fine," came Anti's reply, faint and ready. "The air's thin, but it's
pure oxygen."
"Cold?" asked Docchi.
"It hasn't penetrated yet. No worse than the acid, at any rate. What
do I do?"
Jordan gave her directions. The others watched. It was work to find
the tools and examine the tubes for defectives, to loosen the tubes in
the sockets and pull them out and push them spinning into space. It
was still harder to replace them, though there was no gravity and Anti
was held to the hull by magneslippers.
But it seemed more than work. To Cameron, who was watching, an odd
thought occurred: In her remote past, of which he knew nothing, Anti
had done something like this before. Ridiculous, of course. Yet there
was a rhythm to her motions, this shapeless giant creature whose bones
would break with her weight if she tried to stand at even only half
Earth gravity. Rhythm, a sense of purpose, a strange pattern, an
incredible gargantuan grace.
The whale plowing the waves is graceful; it cannot be otherwise in its
natural habitat. The human race had produced, accidentally, one
unlikely person to whom interplanetary space was not an alien thing.
Anti was at last in her element.
"Now," said Jordan, keeping the tension out of his voice, "go back to
the outside tool compartment. You'll find a lever. Pull. That will set
the combustion cap in place."
"Done," said Anti, some minutes later.
"That's all. You can come in now."
"That's all? But I'm not cold. It hasn't reached any nerves yet."
"Come in," repeated Jordan, showing the anger of alarm.
She walked slowly over the hull to the cargo lock and, while she did,
Jordan reeled in the telecom viewers. The lock was no sooner closed
to the outside and the air hissing into the compartment than Jordan
was there, opening the inner lock.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
She flipped back the helmet. There was frost on her eyebrows and her
nose was a bright red. "Of course. My hands aren't a bit cold." She
stripped off the heated gloves and waggled her fingers.
"It _can't_ be!" protested Cameron. "You should be frozen stiff!"
"Why?" asked Anti, laughing. "It's a matter of insulation and I have
plenty of that."
Cameron turned to Docchi. "When I was a kid, I saw a film of a dancer.
She did a ballet, Life of the Cold Planets, I believe it was called.
For some cockeyed reason, I thought of it when Anti was out there. I
hadn't thought of it in years."
He rubbed his hand fretfully over his forehead. "It fascinated me when
I first saw it. I couldn't get it out of my mind. When I grew older, I
found out a tragic thing happened to the dancer. She was on a tour of
Venus and the ship she was in disappeared. They sent out searching
parties, of course. They found her after she had spent a week on a
fungus plain. You know what that meant. The great ballerina was a
living spore culture medium."
"Shut up," growled Jordan.
Cameron didn't seem to hear. "Naturally, she died. I can't remember
her name, but I've always remembered the ballet she did. And that's
funny, because it reminded me of Anti out there--"
A fist exploded in his face. If there had been more behind the blow
than shoulders and a fragment of a body, his jaw would have been
broken. As it was he floated through the air and crashed against the
wall.
Angrily, he got to his feet. "I gave my word I wouldn't cause any
trouble. The agreement evidently doesn't work both ways." He glanced
significantly at the weapon Jordan carried. "Maybe you'd better be
sure to have that around at all times."
"I told you to shut up," said Jordan. After that he ignored the
doctor. He didn't have a body with which to do it, but somehow Jordan
managed a bow. "A flawless performance. One of your very best,
Antoinette."
"Do you think so?" sighed Anti. The frost had melted from her eyebrows
and was trickling down her cheek. She left with Jordan.
Cameron remained behind. He felt his jaw. It was too bad about his
ambitions. He knew now that he was never going to be the spectacular
success he had once imagined. Not after these accidentals had escaped
from Handicap Haven. Still, he would always be able to practice
medicine somewhere in the Solar System. He'd done his best on the
asteroid and this ship, and he'd been a complete ass both times.
The ballerina hadn't really died, as he had been told. It would have
been better for her if she had. He succeeded in recalling her name. It
had been Antoinette.
Now it was Anti. He could have found that out by checking her case
history--_if_ Handicap Haven had one on file. Probably not, he
comforted himself. Why keep case histories of hopeless cases?
* * * * *
"We'll stick to the regular lanes," said Docchi. "I think we'll get
closer. They have no reason to suspect that we're heading toward
Earth. Mars is more logical, or one of the moons of Jupiter, or
another asteroid."
Jordan shifted uneasily. "I'm not in favor of it. They'll pick us up
before we have a chance to say anything."
"But there's nothing to distinguish us from an ordinary Earth-to-Mars
rocket. We have a ship's registry on board. Pick out a ship that's in
our class. Hereafter, we're going to be that ship. If Traffic blips
us, and they probably won't unless we try to land, have a recording
ready. Something like this: 'ME 21 zip crackle 9 reporting. Our
communication is acting up. We can't hear you, Traffic.' Don't overdo
the static effects but repeat that with suitable variations and I
don't think they will bother us."
Shaking his head dubiously, Jordan swung away toward the repair shops.
"You look worried," said Anti.