Most tantalizing of all, as insignificant as it might have seemed on the surface, was the discovery of the box. Although we never touched it again, it was always there in our minds, and I am sure I was not the only person who detoured to look at it as we moved through that room. It was an artifact, something that was not an integral part of the alien ship. More than that was the feeling, unspoken but felt by most of us, that it had been made by human hands.
29
I was alone in the galley, eating hot soup and working a stereograph puzzle when Rogers stuck his head through the doorway.
“Bartolomeo? You’re going to want to see what’s on the monitor.” Then, after a slight pause: “We’re all going to want to see this.”
I sensed the excitement in his voice and pushed the puzzle aside, letting it fall apart as it drifted across the room. “On my way,” I said.
I fought to stay calm, trying not to expect too much. We were all too keyed up, too ready to find something of importance; I was afraid of disappointment, and not only my own.
By the time I got out to the main cabin, the others were gathering around the large monitor. I took a quick mental census, and no one seemed to be missing. Two or three people were drifting free, but most were sitting, strapped into chairs or wall cushions.
On the screen was a suited figure viewed from behind; captions in the upper left indicated we were watching from Aiyana’s camera, which meant we were seeing either Rita Hollings or Trace Youngman. The figure was standing upright in the center of a long corridor. From the figure’s size, I guessed we were watching Hollings; she was next to a lantern which had been mounted on the wall at chest height. Aiyana was too close for us to see Hollings’ feet, nor could we see a ceiling; beyond, the walls seemed to curve out of sight even before the light faded.
Cardenas was at the cabin console, controlling the sound and video; she glanced up at me, nodded, then turned back to the console.
“I think we’re all here now,” she said. “Rita, you want to give us a quick rundown on what you’ve found? We’re on Aiyana’s camera here.”
Hollings turned to Aiyana, and seemed to be facing us. Now I could make out her face inside the clear steelglass helmet.
“I don’t know how much you can see back there, but this looks an awful lot like one of the corridors on the Argonos. One big difference is, the ceiling here’s a lot higher.” She looked up and Aiyana did the same, our view angling upward so we could see the ceiling far above Hollings’ head. “I’d guess six or seven meters, easy,” she said. Both heads tilted back down and Hollings smiled. “But here’s the great thing.”
She crouched, then jumped. Up she went, then immediately came back down. She was grinning.
“We’ll have to get a precise reading, but it feels damn close to a normal one g. I feel like I’m walking along in the Argonos.”
The picture on the screen shifted to Youngman’s viewpoint. He was just back of the corridor doorway—which was at least twice the size of those on the Argonos—one hand on the frame; from the way the video moved around, it was obvious he was still weightless. He was far enough from Aiyana and Hollings that we could now see their booted feet planted solidly on the corridor floor.
“You two have had enough of the fun,” Youngman said. “It’s my turn.”
I don’t know why, but I was overcome by a rush of panic, and I wanted to yell out STOP! I was suddenly afraid that it was a trap, that as soon as he was inside the corridor, the doorway would seal shut behind him and something terrible would happen to them all.
Youngman carefully pulled himself into the corridor, the gravity settling him firmly to the floor.
Nothing happened.
“Yeah,” he said. “This feels great.” He started walking toward the others.
“How far down the corridor have you gone?” I asked.
“This is it,” Hollings said. “Once we realized what we had here, Margita told us to wait until everyone was there to watch. Can’t see much, except to know it goes a long way. It curves, so our line of sight gets cut off.”
I looked up at the clock. “You’ve got a couple of hours,” I said. “Take it slow, but see if you can find out how far it goes.”
“Thanks, Captain,” Hollings said.
“I’m not the captain,” I quickly replied.
“Not yet.”
A few people laughed, and I hoped everyone thought of it as a joke. Especially Aiyana.
THE corridor curved gently to the right and continued unchanged for half a kilometer. The walls were smooth and unbroken, but set in the ceiling high overhead were regularly spaced depressions lined with strips of a milky blue material that might have been lights, although they now gave off no illumination.
The team had only three lanterns with them, so they couldn’t mount any to illuminate the corridor. That would be the first task of the next team in. Instead, they carried the lanterns to light their way, leaving darkness behind them as they went.
They reached the end of the passage before their shift was over, but didn’t find much else. At the end of the corridor was a single door. I ordered them to leave it untouched and return to the shuttle. Surprisingly, there were no objections. I think they were more tired than they let on; probably from the extra effort of moving in full gravity, and the comedown from an adrenaline high. Even I felt tired, and all I had done was watch them. Hollings mounted one lantern at the end of the corridor, leaving it on to provide a beacon for the next team; then they all headed back.
But despite everyone’s exhaustion, I sensed once again a renewed energy and excitement. Gravity, and this time suitable for human beings. Coincidence? None of us thought so.
30
LEONA Frip would not suit up.
We were up early for the first shift, long before most of the others. It was quiet in the shuttle; Father Veronica, Leona Frip, and I ate quick-heated meals for breakfast; Deanna, one of the pilots, joined us in the galley, drinking coffee. Dr. G. was scheduled to take the first watch on the monitor, so she, too, was up, and pulled herself into the galley still half-asleep.
We didn’t talk much, but there was still an air of excitement. The presence of Earth normal gravity on the alien ship continued to imbue us with a sense of anticipation. We’d abandoned use of the remotes—awkward and practically useless in zero g, they were even more useless in full gravity. Two more days and all we’d found were another half dozen empty rooms and passages, but gravity was present in all of them. Most of us felt certain that we were moving toward something important, some significant discovery or revelation.
But when Father Veronica and I headed for the doorway, Leona Frip remained strapped into her seat. I didn’t notice at first. I heard Father Veronica say, “Leona, it’s time,” but even then I only hesitated for a moment, then kept on going.
“Leona.” Father Veronica’s voice sounded more urgent. “Leona, is something wrong?”
That stopped me. I turned around and came back into the galley. Father Veronica had one hand on Leona’s shoulder, and was bent over her in concern. Leona was staring straight ahead, at nothing and nobody, one hand wrapped around her empty coffee packet, the other resting in her lap. Deanna and Dr. G. hadn’t moved, but they were both looking at her.
“Leona?” Father Veronica gently shook her. “Leona?”
She did not respond. I pulled myself around till I was directly in her line of sight, then crouched so that my face was on the same level as hers. Her eyes were open, hardly blinking; her facial muscles appeared relaxed. She seemed very much at ease.
“Leona,” I said. “Our shift is beginning. We need to suit up, get started. All right?”
Still no response. I knew she hadn’t suddenly gone deaf, mute, and blind, but I was also fairly certain that nothing was registering. Leona Frip had very effectively blocked all of us out of her perception. I looked around at the others, who were looking at me as if I had some answers. I didn’t even have the questions.
�
�Dr. G.,” I said.
She nodded and moved to Leona’s side. Father Veronica backed away. Dr. G. didn’t say anything for a long time, just watched Leona’s passive face.
“Leona,” she finally said, “can you hear me?”
By this time I don’t think any of us expected a response, and there wasn’t one. For the first time, I noticed that Leona’s eyes were a pale, grayish green, and there were a couple of darker flecks in her left eye. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, but I had the impression that it was her normal state. She wore small gold loops in her ears; from each of the loops dangled a string of tiny, beautiful green beads. I felt suddenly guilty, because I realized I had never looked this closely at her before, had never paid enough attention to her as a person, even though she had been a part of my team for weeks.
Dr. G. touched her very gently on the arm—“Leona . . .”—then her hand—“Leona . . .”—and finally her cheek—“Leona . . .”—speaking her name softly with each contact. There was still no response.
The psychologist looked at each of us, then motioned with her head toward the doorway. We headed out of the galley, and Dr. G. followed us after telling Leona she would be right back. Once we were all outside, Dr. G. closed the door.
“I want to get some things from Taggart, and then I want to examine her alone. We could take her to her compartment, but I would rather not try to move her yet. I’m almost certain she wouldn’t go on her own, and I don’t want to force anything unless we have to.”
“What do you think is wrong with her?” I asked.
Dr. G. shook her head. “Just let me examine her first. Then we’ll talk.”
AFTER notifying everyone else about what had happened, we remained in the main cabin for the next hour while Dr. G. was with Leona. More people got up and joined us, since they were unable to go into the galley to eat. Everyone spoke in low voices, and most of them deliberately avoided mentioning Leona’s name. But not Father Veronica. We talked together near the monitor and console, drinking tea from the main cabin’s beverage dispenser.
“I feel so badly for her,” she said.
“For whom?” I asked. “Leona or Dr. G.?”
“Leona. I can’t imagine what must be going on inside her to get to this point.”
“Until this morning she seemed all right to me. Even this morning, for that matter. She joked with me about fighting to see who would get to shower first.”
Father Veronica shook her head. “That doesn’t mean anything. Except that she was good at hiding what she really felt. Or good at denying it.”
“I suppose.” I, too, felt concern and sympathy for Leona, but to be candid, I was just as worried about the effect this would have on our mission. The Executive Council was going to react badly to this incident, and I was afraid of what they would do.
Pär emerged from the rear of the shuttle, hair still wet from the shower, got coffee from the dispenser, and came over to us.
“A hot shower in the morning usually picks up my spirits,” he said, “but it doesn’t seem to have worked today.” He drank some of his coffee and grimaced. “And this muck isn’t any help, either.”
“Pär’s a coffee connoisseur,” I explained.
Father Veronica smiled and nodded. “So I understand. I don’t drink it myself, but I have been told by a reliable source that the coffee he makes is remarkable.”
“Thank you,” Pär said. Then: “Nothing new, I take it.”
I shook my head.
“This is going to be trouble,” he said.
“What about Leona?” Father Veronica asked. “Forget about trouble, what about what she’s going through? Don’t you have some concern, some compassion for her?”
“Yes,” Pär replied. “But I can’t do anything for her. Maybe it’s insensitive, but I’m thinking about consequences, which I might be able to do something about.”
Relief washed over me, because I felt much the same way, but it was Pär who took the brunt of Father Veronica’s disapproval.
Dr. G. came out of the galley then, but only long enough to talk briefly to Taggart, who followed her back inside.
“That does not bode well,” Pär said.
“SHE’S catatonic,” Dr. G. reported an hour later when she emerged from the galley with Taggart. Leona was not with them.
By now everyone was awake and waiting in the main cabin. Someone—Aiyana, I think—asked, “What exactly does that mean?”
“I can’t tell you ‘exactly,’ ” the psychologist replied. “I assume you’ve all been told what happened with Leona earlier this morning. She hasn’t changed. She’s nonresponsive to external stimuli, but it’s not physiological. She hasn’t gone blind or deaf. Her pupils react normally to changes in light, for example. We really need to conduct more extensive tests, including a check for pain responses and the like, but Mr. Taggart and I both agree that we can’t do it properly here. We’re also concerned about her reactions to any kind of invasive examination, and would prefer we were back on the Argonos where we have better equipment and support before undertaking anything like that.”
She paused, trying to formulate her thoughts. “Essentially, Leona’s conscious mind appears to have cut itself off from the outside world. I don’t pretend to fully understand it. I’ve only seen one other case first-hand. Most of what I know about catatonia comes from clinical descriptions in old texts and case histories. Usually a traumatic event is the proximate cause of a catatonic state. But that doesn’t appear to be the case here.”
“Now what do we do?” I eventually asked aloud, the question I’d been silently asking myself for an hour.
“She’s got to go back to the Argonos,” Dr. G. declared.
TWO hours later we were all gathered again in the main cabin, watching the monitor. On the screen, seated around the conference table, were all the members of the Executive Council (except Cardenas and Aiyana, of course, who were with us on the shuttle). Dr. G. had explained Leona’s condition in some detail, and requested that one of the modules be dispatched as soon as possible to take her back to the Argonos.
“I would like to return with her,” Dr. G. said. “I want to stay with her.”
“That will be arranged easily enough,” Nikos said. “But we don’t need to dispatch anything. You should all return.”
Before I had a chance to protest, the bishop leaned toward the camera and said, “I concur with Captain Costa. I believe we all sense the mission is getting out of control.” He held up a hand. “No one is to blame. I commend you all for your efforts, but enough is enough. . . .”
I jumped in before anyone else could say anything. “You aren’t seriously suggesting we abandon this mission. You can’t be.”
The bishop leaned back and looked at us with hooded eyes. “And why not?”
“I don’t think the bishop is suggesting abandonment,” Toller quietly said. “Not permanent.” He turned to the bishop. “At least, I hope not.” He turned back to us. “An extended sabbatical, perhaps. A few weeks. Time enough for everyone to rest, to get away from the pressures and frustrations, to take a fresh approach.” He sighed. “There have been other developments of which you are not aware, Bartolomeo.”
“What developments?”
Nikos explained. “Barry Sorrel’s wife and daughter have both developed the same . . . symptoms as Barry. Extreme lassitude. Loss of appetite. Avoidance of social interaction, even among themselves.”
Pär moved forward. “Are you trying to say this . . . this psychological ‘malaise’ . . . is contagious? Even worse, you seem to be implying that it’s caused by something from the alien starship. That’s just crazy.”
“Is it?” said the bishop. “It could have been something that survived decontamination. That’s why we’ve placed everyone affected in medical isolation.”
“What about the rest of us?” asked Rogers. “Why aren’t we all losing our minds?”
The bishop shrugged. “Different susceptibilities, different immune systems,
different levels of exposure, different eye color for all I know. I don’t have to explain it. Just add them all together.” He held up his closed fist and uncurled a finger as he counted off each name. “Barry Sorrel. His wife. His daughter. Sherry Winton. Nazia Abouti.” With that he held up his thumb, then raised his other hand, fist closed, and continued to list the names. “Starlin. Now Leona Frip.” He paused, holding up six fingers and a thumb. “That’s too many.”
“That’s too many, all right,” I said. “Nazia Abouti doesn’t fit the pattern, and with her you assume an extended incubation period besides. You’re also making assumptions about Sherry Winton that can’t be confirmed—it may all have been an accident, just as she claimed. And how can you add Starlin? All he did was get understandably angry about what he perceived was a deliberate attack that nearly killed him.”
“Perceived is the significant word,” the bishop said. “If he imagined it, then perhaps some psychological deterioration was occurring.”
“If he was imagining it,” Pär put in with a sneer, “then it was an accident, and you can’t say Sherry Winton was affected. You can’t count them both, for Christ’s sake.”
“Yes we can,” the bishop replied.
He didn’t explain, so Nikos did. “Winton and Starlin have both disappeared. There have been reports of confrontations, fighting, ship damage. The two of them appear to be stalking each other through the ship.”
Richard Russo Page 16