Dirge - Alan Dean Foster [92]
Growing desperate, he even risked some of his precious air by going outside in a suit. The barren, lifeless surface of the dwarf moon drove him back inside where at least there was warmth and recorded sound and visuals. After a while he stopped watching them, too, unable to bear the sight of happy, living humans. The boat was stable in its absurdly low orbit, but his mind began to drift. Gravity is only a local constant and does not hold thoughts.
By the third month his hastily assembled supplies began to run out. He found that he did not care. To conserve air he began to live in a suit, choosing to shrink the available atmosphere around him. He did it because it was expected of him, to preserve life, and not because he had any especial desire any longer to do so. A sufficiency of water to sustain existence for a little while longer remained, but he was out of food. That was a good thing, he decided. He would weaken and eventually pass out and not know when the last air available to his suit was exhausted. His body would remain untouched by Pitar or decomposition, preserved in the perfect coldness of space that had already established its imperturbable grasp on the rest of the ship.
He had been drifting, drifting, for a long time, sucking less and less often at the plastic teat of the water tube in his helmet, when something hazarded to ruffle his sleep. Irritated at the interruption, he rose from his seat and moved to locate the source of the disturbance. Before he could find it, it found him, and he started to scream. After that, he remembered little except the screaming.
As it turned out, except for a few inexplicable outbursts, no one could hear the screaming but him. It went on and on, forever…
14
“… Forever.”
Tse said nothing. Sliding her hand down his arm, she took his right hand in both of hers. Lifting it, she brought it up to her lips and kissed it gently, then pressed it against her cheek, not giving a damn what any vexed bureaucrats or disapproving hospital personnel watching on distant monitors might think. As he continued to stare out the window at the blue water and gently swaying palms, tears were running down Mallory’s cheeks, copious and unstoppable. His respiration was normal, his heart rate steady, but he could not stop crying. Eventually, he simply ran out of water.
“A part of me is here, alive. Another part is back on Treetrunk, with my friends and associates, dead. A third and last part is floating, floating on an inner moon, raving mad.”
“I’m here,” she told him softly. “I’m alive.”
“Yes.” Smiling again, he wiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his hospital gown. “Thank God for small favors. Not you, Irene. There’s nothing ‘small’ about you. May I call you Irene?”
“Mr. Mallory, you may call me anything you want.” Lowering his hand, she squeezed it very tightly before lowering it back to the bed. “You’ve earned that right.”
“I don’t want it as a ‘right.’ I want it from a friend.”
“However you wish,” she told him softly.
The moment was broken, though not shattered, as Dr. Chimbu, several military and civilian personnel Tse did not recognize, and two medical technicians entered the room. Though they filled it, there was no frenzy, no pushing or shoving. Everyone, including the solemn-visaged officers, was quiet and respectful.
“Mr. Mallory,” Chimbu began gently, “we don’t want to crowd you. If there are too many people in here now, just say so and we’ll have some leave.”
The man in the bed grinned. He had not let go of the nurse’s hand, and she did not draw it away. “Too many people? There aren’t enough. There can never be enough for me, not ever again.”
Standing behind the chief medical officer, a handsome woman in a colonel’s uniform was no longer able to restrain herself. It was an attitude plainly shared by everyone around her.
“Mr. Mallory, as I’m sure you can understand there are some of us who very badly would like to ask you some questions. If you don’t feel up to it…”
“Ask away.” He smiled up at Tse. “And how about some real food? Applesauce is fine—preferably on