Binary - Michael Crichton [47]
'Yes.'
'Well, when I get into that room, all the surfaces will be coated with oil. And deadly. Right?'
'Probably not,' Nordmann said. 'It takes time for the droplets to settle. If the room is cleared of gas fast enough, the surfaces should be safe.'
'You sure?'
'I'm not sure about anything.'
They passed the fifteenth floor. Graves resisted the impulse to hold his breath. He looked at Nordmann. Nordmann crossed his fingers.
Seventeenth floor. Eighteenth floor. Nineteenth floor. Graves waited for the gas to hit him, but nothing happened. They came to the twentieth, and the doors opened.
'We made it,' he said. 'So far,' Nordmann said. They hurried down the corridor. 'Time?' 'Four forty-two,' one of the cops said.
They came to Apartment 2011, the one directly above Wright's. The building had been evacuated and the door was locked. The two policemen threw themselves at the door. It didn't move. They tried again without success.
Nordmann went hurrying down the hallway and returned with a fire axe. He swung once at the door. The axe barely bit into the wood.
'Let me do that,' one of the cops said, and swung hard near the lock.
'Knock it down, knock it down,' Graves said.
It took time. There was no easy crash and splintering; the wood was new and strong and thick. Finally the cop managed to bash a hole large enough to admit his hand. He reached in and turned the lock. The door swung open, and they came into an apartment that was all chintz and doilies and heavy furniture.
Graves went directly to the window and flung it open. He looked out and down, feeling the hot, gusty August wind. He was sweating hard.
One of the cops tied the nylon rope around his waist.
'Tell me what I do,' Graves said to Nordmann, and pointed to the syringe.
'Okay,' Nordmann said. 'You press that syringe to give yourself an injection of the antidote. You can push the plunger this far -' he touched the side of the syringe '- and be safe. More than that, and you will suffer effects similar to the gas itself. Clear?'
'Christ,' Graves said.
The cop cinched the rope tight around his waist.
'Remember,' Nordmann said, 'that you're counteracting the effects of the gas and you must pay out antidote in relation to your exposure to the toxin. Clear?'
'What happens if I undershoot?'
'That's worse than overshooting. It's better to give yourself too much than too little. But not too much too much.'
'When do I begin to inject?'
'Just before your exposure to the gas. If you're exposed before injecting, you'll have only five or ten seconds of clear consciousness. So do it before.'
'Four forty-five,' one of the cops said. Graves swung one leg over the window ledge. 'You afraid of heights?' Nordmann asked. 'Terrified,' Graves said.
'Good luck,' Nordmann said as Graves crawled completely over the sill and hung there for a moment with his hands.
'We've got you,' one of the cops said. Graves let go and began his descent down the face of the building.
He tried to balance himself against the stone wall. It was remarkable how dirty the outside of an apartment building could be. His fingers scraped over a crust of dirt and grime and pigeon droppings. He tried not to look down, but once he lost his balance and twisted upside-down, so that he was descending head first. He stared straight at the ground.
The people were minute below him. He was vaguely aware of the hot wind whistling in his ears; it was the only sound he heard. He seemed completely isolated completely alone. He reached for the stones of the apartment wall with tense fingers. He slowly pulled himself around until he was upright again.
His descent continued more slowly. He checked his watch. It was 4:47. Plenty of time, plenty of time...
He was now just above Wright's window. He could see the interior of the apartment clearly - the two tanks, yellow and black, the connecting hoses, the equipment, the snaking cables and electrical lines.
'Okay,' Nordmann shouted. 'Inject yourselfl'
Graves hung dangling and twisting on the rope, nineteen floors above the street, and tried