_Wednesday, October 19, 1977_
_Messenger--7:45_ A.M. (_C.S.T._)
He came awake to vicious clarity. The long dreamless pill-induced sleep
had left him over-rested, too fresh, too thinking, conscious, and aware.
But this was Wednesday: the last day. He’d be in the Dome that night.
He was not absolutely sure he could make it. For the first Goddam time
in his life, he was not certain he would be able to come through.
Something strangely like exultation surged through him.
_And what in hell was that for?_ What was so special about not being
good enough?
He knew, but damned if he’d tell himself.
One thing he told himself, all right, at the beginning, and that was
still good. He got through Sunday and Monday and Tuesday; he could make
it through ten more hours and stick with it. Maybe he’d crack up and
go tell Chris off or open an air lock or any damn thing. But he wasn’t
drinking this trip. Not _this_ trip.
Whatever happened _after_ he got there, he’d _get_ there cold sober.
Then it was up to her....
Monday night was the worst. Monday night and Tuesday. He got through
that all right, he could make ten lousy hours. But he hadn’t had a
goddam drink yet, and he wasn’t going to. Not _this_ trip....
_Ten hours?_
The bastard was jeering at him. _So okay, laugh. Ten hours is pretty
damn long. Yeah._
He got up, and planned his time. _Breakfast._ That was as far as he
could get. _Lunch, later._ And all the time in between.
Sunday, and Monday morning he had seen the control rooms and comm rooms
and cargo shuttles and climbed around the massive ion engine. The heat
exchangers were old stuff; so was most of the rest. But he had looked
at everything, examined, inspected. He could handle this job himself if
he had to now. He didn’t have to. Basil would. Basil ... he’d trained
with Laughlin and Wendt, but wasn’t tapped for the _Colombo_ trip. So
now he was a Space ferry jockey....
_Good boy, Basil, he made the grade. Didn’t go too far out like we
did._...
Basil would brake into Zeroville orbit. _Should have started by now_,
he thought, _shouldn’t they?_ Then he _felt_ the difference, and knew
he’d been feeling it all along. Deceleration. Not much yet, but you
started easy with ions and let it build. No blast, no sweat.
Monday, after lunch, nothing to do except sit in the damn lounge and
watch them all lushin’ it up. Hell with that. Hell of a trip not to
drink on; nothing else to do. Half the victims got stoned first night
out and _stayed_ that way.
He spent Monday afternoon in the dining room, drinking coffee, watching
out the pretty picture window while the Moon came around and around,
bigger each time--if you happened to have micro-calipers to measure
with. He stared out long enough so he found out one thing: empty Space
didn’t bug him at all. He already knew that the birds were okay. He had
almost enjoyed it, going through the business end of the wheel with the
guys. It wasn’t _going_ that bugged him; it was _where_ the Hell you
went.
Which was just what he’d said all along. But now he _knew_. Chris had
kept him knocked out the whole trip up and back before; so _they_
hadn’t been so damn sure either...? Well, now _he_ was.
He sat there until Chris came in and saw him. Then he sat there long
enough to make sure Chris knew he was looking _out_. Then he swung down
to the crew lounge and found a poker game getting under way.
He was okay till the game broke up. After that, it was bad. That was
the only time he almost broke down. A couple of shots would’ve put him
to sleep at least. He spent the time from two in the morning till six,
when they started to serve breakfast, sitting in the damn dark dining
room, watching the Moon grow so slowly you didn’t know it, except that
you _knew_ it.
After people started to show up, it was better; he had to keep up some
front, when they were watching him.
Chris stayed out of his way; he stayed out of Chris’. He was
disappointed, some, but glad; Chris probably knew he came on as Mac’s
man. So that was that. No battles. Everybody knew what side they were
on. At least Mac and Chris knew. Johnny knew what side he was on, too,
but it wasn’t what _they_ thought.
_Turnabout, that’s all_, he thought with silent grim pleasure. _They
used me; now I use them. Let ’em all bleed._...
Tuesday was bad anyhow--bad all day long. If he’d had to stay awake
Tuesday night, he didn’t know--
The Medic asked him, did he want a sleeping pill. Well, Hell, plenty
of people took sleeping pills. Only now he was wide-awake, rested, and
much too clear in the head. _Maybe I should of stood out of bed...?_
_Ten hours_.... He didn’t know what was going to happen, but he
was sure of this much: he was _not_ going to drink; and he was
_not_--voluntarily, anyhow--_damn it, not without a fight_--going to
sleep out anything the rest of the passengers could take.
_Dollars Dome--11_ A.M. (_C.S.T._)
They stopped at the office to see if Thad had any news yet. He did; but
nothing special. If there had been any trouble, or anything out of the
way at all, on board the _Messenger_, it was not being broadcast.
“They probably kept him sedated anyhow,” Phil pointed out, as they
crossed the Mall to the Med Building where his office was.
She shook her head. “No. Not this time.”
“Oh?” He looked at her curiously. Under his eyes, she lost some of the
quiet certainty with which she had heard both Thad’s report and Phil’s
comment.
“I mean, I don’t _think_ so. I--” She flashed a quick smile. “--have a
_hunch_, let’s say.”
“Tell me more.”
“I will,” she said soberly. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,
Phil.”
But she said nothing more till they were in his office. Then she took
out two small rolls of sound tape, and handed them to him.
“I’d like you to hear these for yourself before I say anything,” she
told him. “I made them out at the Shack. One was Monday. The other’s
yesterday.”
He turned spools over in his hand dubiously.
“You care to give me any notion of what I’m listening to? Or for?”
“I thought perhaps you should just _hear_ them first, but--I guess
it’ll make more sense if I tell you this much first. After we talked
about that--telepathy bit, I got to thinking, and I realized I’d just
been _scared_ by the idea. Kind of foolish, I guess.... All this time
I’ve been going around telling people I believe in--or, well, that
I think there’s a lot of sense in some of the work they’ve done in
E.S.P.--Then as soon as something happens to _show me_, I back off and
say, ‘Oh, no, not for _me_, friend!’” She smiled wryly. Phil grinned.
“Honey, I told you to start with, this Shack stuff was spooky.
Something makes sense, that doesn’t necessarily make it _feel
sensible_. I still get shivers when I try to think what they mean by an
‘infinite universe.’ Stuff like that.”
“Maybe so. Anyhow, I think I’m over--” She stopped herself. “That’s not
true. I’m still scared as hell. But I’m scared of having a baby too,
and scared of what might happen tonight, when Johnny comes, and--I’m
scared of lots of things I know are _real_, and even know I’ll get
through all right.”
He cleared his throat. “Okay, kid. I hope you love me too. Now:--what’s
the bit with the tapes?”
“Well, I tried to think how I might be able to find out scientifi--I
guess, _experimentally_ is a better word? Anyhow, I thought if I got
a recorder fixed up so that I could talk what I was thinking out
there--at least _I’d_ find out what I _do_ think there--I told you, I’m
never positive afterwards just when I got some idea, or just where it
_came_ from--?”
He nodded.
“And then, if it turned out to have anything on it that we could
_check_.... Well, then I’d _know_. Or at least, we’d know there was
something worth working on. Well, you know what I mean.”
“I think so. Just one thing, Lee. You want me to play these, so I
gather you _do_ think there’s something--” He smiled. “--something
‘worth working on?’”
“I’d rather not say what _I_ think before--”
“I didn’t ask you to. I told you what _I_ think, right now. It’s just
that it’s the way you talk about the whole business that makes me
think so. So I play these tapes, see? And let’s say _I_ think there’s
something there--let’s say, at a minimum, something that needs to be
looked into more?” He paused. “Lee, you’re not forgetting that Johnny’s
coming? He’ll be here tonight. I don’t know what happens after that.
Neither do you. I just don’t see the news story on why he’s coming. Why
in hell would he come up here for McLafferty if he wouldn’t for you or
Chris?”
“Phil--” She put a hand on his arm, stopping him. “Listen first, will
you? I’ve heard them. _I know_ there’s _something_ that--well, just
listen, will you? We’ll talk later. But I haven’t forgotten about
Johnny, _believe_ me. That’s partly why I wanted to give you the
tapes now--_before_ he gets here. And partly why I guess I don’t want
to talk about it _right now_. I can’t decide anything much till he
comes anyhow. And--well, whatever happens, I’d like to think that--I
mean, let’s say I back out of the whole thing and go home and never
say bad words like ESP again--_If_ there’s anything in this thing, I
have a hunch it’s not _me_ especially. I just happen to be the one
it--_happened to_? That’s as good a way as any to put it. So--so shut
up and listen first, will you?”
“Right.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “One other thing, Lee--while
the saying’s still good. Don’t forget I made an offer?”
“I won’t,” she said. She stepped forward quickly inside his arm, kissed
him, and turned and left. “I’ve got a class for the next hour,” she
said at the door. “Then I’ll be in my room till about two or three.
After that, I’ll be out at the Shack, if you want to talk to me about
any of the stuff there.”
_Zeroville--11:15_ A.M. (_C.S.T._)
The morning had been all right.
He’d never had more than theoretical training on ion drive; there was
no working ship with one when the _Colombo_ took off. Now, roaming on
invitation between the rocket rooms and control centers, he began to
realize just what a monumental accomplishment the _Messenger_ was.
It was one thing to have the figures in your head: thrust and cost,
tonnage, performance, all that. But for John Wendt, at least, nothing
convinced but performance. The math told you what to expect--what your
chances were. After that, metal and plastic and power, and flesh and
blood and brains made it _work_.
If it worked, it was time to believe in it; not until then.
He spent the morning acquiring belief in the ion drive. He made a
point of not thinking ahead. But as the drive shut out, and the great
wheel, shorn of all velocity, slid onto the Zeroville coasting track,
he had no alternative. Eleven-fifteen. TOA Moon Dome announced for
seven-thirty. Eight hours, fifteen minutes.
Lunch, of course. Then what? There’d be nothing doing in crew quarters,
once the shuttles left--
_Sonofabitch!_
He wouldn’t be on the wheel; he’d be in the shuttle. In Shuttle Two:
out like a light. With all the other squares.
All passengers made the shuttle-leg under sedation. _All passengers_....
The speaker overhead came to life: “All passengers please board your
shuttles. Prepare for sedation.”
Johnny found Basil, and thanked him. “Nice of you to let me hang around
so much,” he said. “I’d have flipped my top sitting it out with the
damn riders the whole way.”
“Pleasure, Johnny. I mean it. Hell, it was good to see you again. I
don’t want to stick my nose where it ain’t wanted, but--like man, if
you’re gonna be around again--oh, crap, you know what I mean.”
“Thanks, Bass. Tell you the truth, I don’t know yet myself. But you got
no one to blame but yourself if they kick you out and give _me_ your
job. Hell--I felt so much like crew this trip, I forgot all about the
shuttle-leg, till they hollered just now.” The announcer barked again,
and started “Last call.”
Johnny took off down the shaft.
He had it _made_!
_Red Dome--3:50_ A.M. (_S.S.T._) (_2:30_ P.M. _C.S.T._)
“... helicopter sighted at base of hill 29.3 kilometres N. 17° E. from
Playfair Crater. Flight reconnaissance fully establishes identity
of vehicle. No indication of presence of pilot, M. Harounian. No
superficial evidence of forced landing. Ground search to be conducted
pending permission from U.S.A.A. authorities to conduct same within
50-kilometre zone.”
Dr. Chen tapped the stiff paper of the official report thoughtfully on
his desk. Then he switched on the phone, and asked for the S.U.A.R.
hostel at World Dome.
That seemed probably the best way to go about it. Besides which, Dr.
Christensen was not at Dollars Dome, and no second-in-command would
want to take responsibility for such a decision.
_Dollars Dome--4:30_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)
Phil Kutler sat at his desk, with a dozen sheets of rapidly typed pages
spread out in front of him. He picked up one, glanced at it, put it
down, picked up another. He shook his head, marveling or disbelieving,
or just dazed: he wasn’t sure which.
On each page, he had collected what seemed to be associated bits from
the two tapes. Now he began stacking sheets, sorting them into two
piles. In one were the “weirdies”: what they _seemed_ to mean was not
even worth thinking about yet, he told himself firmly. The other stack
held more coherent and familiar bits which, however, seemed probable
“normal” thought ramblings. He picked up the next page:
“I will come, yes, I come ... I hear you call. I know it is time now
I will leave this place ... come to where love sends the call out ...
I too love, have warmth, I bring my breath with ... come now to know,
learn, tell, teach, exchange ... come with love to love....”
That was from Monday. From the Tuesday tape: “... came to us ... to me
... to us, _me-all_, came seeking, not knowing, almost, not-sure ...
came with openness, with warm-breathing ... came to find and to speak
and know....”
He put it with the others, then took it off. This one was worth at
least _asking_ about. He knew in advance what the answer would be.
No one had come to the Dome or the Shack; if they had, the whole
Dome would know it. But--it hung together too well. He set it aside,
separately. The next two went onto the stack. He pulled the remaining
page toward him, and sat staring at it.
“... each time around it’s closer, bigger ... need a damn microcaliper
to know it but true, it _is_ ... Lisa, Lee, love....”
It wasn’t till that bit came out near the end of the Monday tape that
Phil understood why she had waited till today to tell him, or why she
would not stay while he played them. Damn few things that would really
_embarrass_ Lee--but her own voice talking love-talk to her would be
one too much!
“... To you, just to you ... screw ’em all ... but I dammit I damn I
love you, you’re too damn good for me but if I still can I’ll get you
back ... round again, bigger, I can’t see the difference, but know ...
too damn many things don’t see, don’t have to not-know account of that.
Don’t see you either ... baby, babe, doll, _wait_ ... damn it hurts,
scared, Lee, you know?, damn, I’m _scared_ ... but I’m coming, babe,
here I come, _wait_!”
Also on Monday’s tape: “... bastard, but not so bad. Smart bastard
anyhow ... just for now, though ... up there, he’s the boss ... good
man, Goddammit, you like the guy or not, good man in his job, and he
knows not here, not know ... Mac-go-to-hell, who cares which one? Just
you kid, the rest of ’em drop dead all I care....”
The page was a full one. Tuesday’s sections included mentions of
someone named Bass, and a man called Kenny, and something about a
poker game, scraps on a smashed window, subpoena server, a bit about
“Mac”--McLafferty?
Well, _this_ page at least could be checked. He folded it, tucked it in
his jacket pocket, and left the office.
Downstairs, he turned, without quite planning to, in the direction of
the Ad Building. In the back of his mind was the question of whether to
speak to Thad about the tapes. He knew he wouldn’t; and with Chris on
his way back, it didn’t make sense, anyhow. But he was not quite ready
to see Lisa yet, and he very much wanted to talk to _some_one.
He’d kill some time with Thad, anyhow.
Better that way. His thoughts could work themselves out better on their
own, in their hidden places, than he could do by conscious effort.
_Dollars Dome--4:45_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)
The suave exterior of the U.S. Envoy to World Dome, the Honorable
Andrew Kenneth Gahagan--a diplomat of the old school--appeared sadly
shaken on the phone screen: whether by emotion, bad radio transmission,
or creeping senility, Thad could not tell.
When he heard what the Honorable Gahagan had to say, he ruled out
the likelihood of poor transmission. The other two choices remained
equally possible, since the biochemist had no way of knowing just
_how_ serious, realistically speaking, a Red “invasion” of territorial
boundaries might be.
“It can’t wait two-three hours?” he asked. “Dr. Christensen will be
here at seven, and I think it should be authorized by him personally.”
“My own feeling in the matter,” said the Honorable Gahagan “is that it
should be authorized by Mexcity or not at all. I felt obliged, however,
to determine your attitudes before communicating with State on the
matter.”
Thad felt an almost irrepressible urge to say, _Oh, hell, tell ’em come
on over, if they’ll send their bio chief in the party_ ... or perhaps,
_You know, some of the babes there aren’t bad. Tell ’em to shoot us a
photo and we’ll look for ourselves_ ... or even just, _Oh, foof!_ He
exercised his will power to its fullest extent and said instead:
“Look, let me buzz you back in five minutes. I’ve got something here I
have to get out of the way, and then I’ll see what we can do about it.”
He switched off and said to Kutler, who had come in sometime during the
conversation, “You get that bit?”
“Just the tailend.”
“The Honorable is all worked up because the Reds have asked permission
to conduct a search for the pilot--girl pilot, I might add--of a
helicopter of theirs that seems to have landed in some kind of
trouble inside our zone. I wouldn’t’ve thought twice myself, but Old
Horsefeathers has me worried. And maybe with this whole Security
investigation bit--”
“Man, you don’t read the news. It’s sex they’re discovering now, not
Security,” Phil interjected.
“Oh. Well, maybe being as it’s a _girl_ pilot--Got it!” he said
suddenly. “What do you think of doing it this way? Tell ’em sure, and
we’ll help. Set it up so any search team is mixed? Then there can’t be
any snooping or anything. What do you think?”
“Sounds good to me,” Phil said. “It can’t wait till Chris comes, hey?”
“This babe has been missing about twelve hours, and they don’t know if
she’s hurt or in shock or anything.”
“Well, we can’t very well _refuse_ permission then. I guess the mixed
search is about the best bet.”
“Yeah.” He reached for the phone switch, hesitated, picked up a scrap
of paper from the desk. “Do me a favor, will you? Get a few guys to
run on out to this location right away and look over the plane. That’s
where it’s supposed to be. Meantime, I’ll tell Ole Mustachios what
the score is, and let--Nope. I’ll call Plato _first_, and then tell
Gahagan. That way he can’t stall.”
Phil nodded approvingly, took the paper, and started out. “Hey, Thad,”
he said first. “Lee’s out at the Shack. Suppose I get the squad to drop
me off there on the way, and bring her back in? You don’t need me for
anything around here?”
“No. Good idea. Glad you thought of it.”
_Dollars Dome--7:30_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)
When he came out of it, Chris was standing next to the couch, watching
him. He got himself unbuckled, stood up, stretched. Chris watched, and
said nothing. Johnny straightened out, felt his feet steady under him,
and took a stance facing the other man, not more a foot away.
“All right, Johnny, you got here,” Chris said. “_Now_ what?”
“What I said to start with,” he replied evenly. “I want to see Lisa.
I hear by the newspapers--” _The hell with that crap! He didn’t ask_
why....
“_I_ see by the newscasts,” Chris picked up on it, “That you are here
as a ‘special investigator’ for Mr. McLafferty--whatever _that_ is.”
Johnny said nothing.
“Are the newscasts right?”
“Ask McLafferty.”
“You’re closer.”
“Listen, Chris. I came for Lee. You can make it easy or make it tough.
We used to be friends, so I tell you this once: I came for my girl. You
and Mac can both go to whatever kind of Hell they keep for guys like
you. And I’ll foul you up as cheerfully as him if you get in my way. I
came for my girl. The rest of your politicking fornicating foolishness
doesn’t concern me at all.”
Chris thought it over. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll cooperate with you in
anything Lee wants. Outside of that, I warn you, step out of line just
once, just by one toe, and--I’m the boss here. That’s all.”
“Okay. Now where’s my girl?”
“You know the room. If she’s not there, try Kutler.”
_Dollars Dome--7:50_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)
“He’s pretty damn busy,” Bourgnese said. “If it’s something I can take
care of...?”
“You Number Two boy here?” Johnny demanded.
“You could put it that way,” the other man said coldly.
“Okay. I’ll put it that way. Can you authorize me a half-track?”
“You’re kiddin’!”
_Well, what in Hell is so special about wanting a car?_ “What are they,
made out of solid gold or something? Nobody but the Big Cheese can sign
’em out?”
“Look, before you flip completely, friend, leave me advise you that
there probably isn’t even a car in the Dome. If they’re not all out
already, they ought to be. And what makes you so damn eager to get in
on it?”
“In on what? I’m looking for Lisa.”
“Well, try Kutler if she’s not in her room. He brought her back in--”
“He’s not here and neither is she.”
“You _sure_ of that? He went out for her--Hell, it must’ve been
five-thirty or so--”
“I’m sure. She’s at the Shack.”
Bourgnese stared at him a moment.
“You tried the dining room and dance room and all that jazz? I _know_
he was bringing her right back.”
“Listen,” Johnny said, straining all his nerves for patience. “They’re
not here. They’re at the Shack. Hell, I don’t know where _he_ is, and I
don’t give a damn. But _she’s_ there.”
“How do you know?”
“How the Hell do you _think_ I--?” He stopped cold. How _did_ he know?
“They’re _both_ there,” he said, and knew it was true. “I don’t know
who the hell else is with them, but they’re both there.”
“Wait a minute,” Bourgnese went to the phone and called the Shack
Guardhouse. “Charlie! Is Miss Trovi still there?”
“Yeah. Her and the other babe and the Doc. Some half-track dropped him
off couple hours ago. They’re all in there.”
“Right. Thanks, Charlie.” He switched off and got Lock Supply.
“Give me the call number on Kutler’s suit.”
“Hold on. Here it is. Five-nine-cue-six-emm.”
“Thanks.” He switched off and on again, dialled the helmet radio
number. Nothing. “Damn!”
He turned back to Johnny. “Okay,” he said, “Let’s go.”
They strode rapidly across the Mall to Lock Supply. Bourgnese signed
out suits for both of them.
Johnny turned to Thad as the other man started away. “Thanks,” he said.
“I don’t know why in Hell you’re doing it. But _thanks_.”
“No,” Bourgnese said. “I guess you wouldn’t know why.”
_The Shack--8_ P.M.--_Phil Kutler_
The two women sat, one at each side of the tank, gazing into it. Lisa’s
voice droned as the tape wound from spool to spool:
“... but I-all did not know ... idea of unit-body discrete-person
too far back with memory haze ... and not-alike, even when ... but
_when_? how far back? ... so long I had been one-and-all ... recalled
haze-memory, but too much lost with no-need-to-know ... had to begin,
to learn, fresh, new ... too slow, too slow....”
“_He’s coming!_”
The words cracked like a whiplash in his helmet; he jumped back, out of
touch, put a hand to his face-plate in reflexive feeling for damage,
that _snap_ had been so sharply physical.
The plate was intact. Of course. He smiled foolishly, leaned toward her
again; found he had to _force_ himself to retouch helmets. That crack
had _hurt_.
“Johnny?” he asked.
No answer. Then out of the side of his eye he saw she was nodding her
head inside the helmet.
“Can you tell if anyone’s with him?”
Pause. “Somebody, yes ... not Chris ... Thad?”
That seemed likely.
“How is he--What kind of a mood--? I mean Johnny.”
She giggled. “_Fierce!_”
_Great!_ But _she_ didn’t sound worried. “That’s good?” he asked sourly.
“Depends....”
He backed off to look at her. The half-smile on her face was--in
Moonsuit and helmet, in a half-enclosed shack on the Moon’s friendless
face--absurd, ludicrous ... nothing short of outrageously funny with
its eternal-mysterious-female. _So laugh already!_ He didn’t. _Sure_,
he thought, _funny, like ... crazy, man ... but how would it look if
she smiled it for you?_ Then he realized she could probably hear _this_
as well--or more clearly than?--anything he said aloud through the
helmets. And then, with relief, but with bitterness too: _If she were
listening, that is_....
She wasn’t. She was listening only to one man, the man at the wheel
of the half-track, now visibly nearing at full speed across the Moon
dustcakes--coming for her.
And the half-smile was gone. A full, lovely smile now, and moist eyes
too. _What the hell is he saying?_
_None of your damn business!_
He started again. It was going to take getting used to: getting to know
when you had thought a thing for yourself, or had it thought _to_ you.
That one was himself--he thought.
He leaned forward again. “Does Maria know?”
“Of _course_. We were just thinking....” Then it happened again: a
sort of stereo-thought in his mind, coming from both, complete,
in-agreement, and did-he-agree? Was this the best way?
He nodded, straightened up, and walked through the door to wait outside.
_The Shack--8_ P.M.--_Thad Bourgnese_
“It ought to be Phil,” he said tensely. “I’ll try him again.” This time
the reply was immediate; nothing wrong with Doc’s suit then; he’d just
been switched off before.
_Switched off?_ The guy goes out to get Lisa, stays out himself
instead, and turns off his set. _Nice going_....
“Hi,” Phil said. “Johnny with you?”
“Yeah. What in hell are you doing out here? _And where’s Lee?_”
“Right inside. Waiting. Also, we have a guest.”
“_Guest?_” If that meant what he thought it did, this was one too much.
“Who’s the guest?”
“I hate to shout,” Phil said. “You dig me, man!”
_Yeah? I do, do I? Then what in the name of all-holy have you been
sitting out here for? The whole damn Dome goes out hunting, and_....
The half-track ground to a screeching halt. Wendt was out almost before
it stopped. Thad turned off the ignition and followed. He saw Johnny’s
taller figure march like incarnate doom on the man at the door.
“For krissakes, Phil,” he started, and would have said, _Let him in!_
but it was unnecessary. Kutler had moved before Wendt got there. Johnny
went through, and Phil stepped back in front of the door.
Thad walked up slowly. He was trying hard to hold onto the irritation
he _knew_ he should still feel.
“What gives?” he asked, and managed a frown.
“Lee said, just Johnny, first, please. That’s all.”
“_Just?_ What’s with your company?”
“She’ll be out.” Kutler’s calm ought to be infuriating. But all he felt
was: _Well, Phil’s got some sense; he must know what he’s doing_....
“You wouldn’t mind filling me in some?” he asked.
“Glad to. Turn off your radio. I don’t want to tell the whole world.”
The two men touched helmets, and Phil started talking. A moment later,
a bulky figure in an ill-fitting, clearly-marked, S.U.A.R. suit
came out of the Shack. The three of them headed for the pressurized
Guardhouse.
_The Shack--8_ P.M.--_Johnny Wendt_
He stepped through the doorway into dimness and a kind of--_warmth?_
In the center of the pavilion--that’s all it really was--a tank set on
the ground bubbled evilly around an enormous hump of moldy grey-white,
kneaded-looking, knobbed, and ridged.
Two suited figures sat, one on each side of the tank. As he entered,
the one at the far end arose, walked around the tank, came toward him.
_Lee?_
It wasn’t, of course. He would have known by her walk, and when she
came close enough, by her face.... But before he saw these things at
all, he _knew_ it wasn’t. Lee sat with her back to him. The other
woman--_Maria?_--smiled as she passed, and went out.