A Ravel of Waters

'Darling, my darling!' she whispered. 'I can't let you, I won't let you! This is plain suicide! You're not even seeing me, you're so preoccupied! I love you, I want you – I'm going to lose you!'

I kissed her, tried to soothe her. 'Even kamikazes have their moment of glory, my darling.'

Her mouth sought mine; it was salty with tears. 'There's no glory in a burst from an automatic,' she sobbed.

'What's the alternative?' I asked. 'Being led like sheep to the slaughter?'

Her head fell on my chest. 'What chance did our love get?' she asked brokenly. 'A week? A fall overboard? Being imprisoned together with this awful shadow hanging over us? And now…'

I kissed her fair hair and combed it back past her ears with my thumbs. 'There was no time, my darling – either then, or now.'

A final convulsive sob shook her body. Then she took control of herself. She eased me away from her. 'Don't kiss me goodbye,' she said, her head turned aside. 'I can't handle it. And it is – goodbye.'

I said nothing. Already part of my mind was focused on the guard.

The survival suit hung like a crucified monster on its hanger. It had big ungainly boots which were integral with the legs. The suit came in one size only and it was made of a substance called foam neoprene, the latest in survival gear. Tideman had told me that the manufacturer claimed one could get into the suit in half a minute. Key feature of the outfit was a sealing zipper which had been developed for the United States space programme. Silently I handed Kay the dagger, indicating that she should not meddle with the blade release. The suit certainly bore out the maker's claims – with Kay's assistance I was into it in what seemed seconds. Almost immediately the insulation made me sweat; perhaps fear of being surprised by the guard also had something to do with it. The visor and cap came last. By pulling the cap forward and tilting my head, my face was hidden. In that position, however, I could see nothing of anyone above waist-level.

Finally, Kay clasped my fingers round the dagger. They were as ungainly as bandaged bananas. I wondered whether I would ever be able to trigger the blade release. My success depended on one lightning-quick stroke before the guard suspected the suit had an occupant. If I fumbled even for a second, I was done. Then Kay was gone. I maintained the hanger pose – slumped, head down, arms out. Time ceased to pass.

My sole clock to mark the passage of the minutes – or was it hours? – was the drip of my sweat. The suit became a sauna.

I could not hear because of the waterproof cap; I dared not raise my head in case the next moment found the guard there. The next moment he was.

My sight of him was like a cut-off television camera shot – a trigger hand, a finned barrel, a pair of legs, a firing crouch. The muzzle held steadied on the suit. On me.

I waited for the shot. A blob of sweat chased itself inside my neck, down my chest, past my stomach. I felt every millimetre of its progress. No shot.

The guard's torso swung away. Feet followed. His boots were a boxer's ankle-hugging type. Now!

My fingers inside the glove were slippery with sweat. I flexed them for the stroke.

The guard's toes swivelled. A boxer dodging a knockdown punch couldn't have matched their speed. They pointed straight at me. Had the gunman heard? Had he seen? I froze – if that was the word in a bath of sweat.

Maybe he had caught, animal-like, some vibration of my rolling tension. Perhaps he even smelt my fear. I kept my head low, my eyes unsighted. Slowly, slowly, I watched his knees ease their tension. Slowly, slowly, that on-target barrel shifted away from my guts.

I did not know how long I could keep every muscle tight as a fence-wire without one making an involuntary giveaway ripple. Sweat cascaded down my knife-fingers.

The guard's toes pivoted ninety degrees. His back was towards me. Now!

Perhaps the switch-blade gave a click on release. Perhaps my body movements beat it by a milli-second. Or perhaps he only sensed rather than heard anything. Whatever it was, he was already turning, left shoulder following the UZI round, when I lurched at him.

There wasn't time for the orthodox overhand dagger thrust. The clumsy suit would not have allowed it. It was a low, savage up-and-under to the heart.

The jar up my arm could have been a glance off the UZI's breech, or the bone armour of his rib-cage.

I fell on him, enveloped him – a crude parody of a rugby smother-tackle. My knife hand skewered him. If he screamed or uttered any sound, I did not hear it. We cannoned off a partition wall, pitched into the main sickbay, carrying the curtain with us.

I had a momentary sight of the UZI being snatched up by another hand – Tideman's. The guard and I lay face-to-face, I on top. I was grateful for my visor. The man's mouth was contorted. Tell-tale pink sprayed from it. blurring the Perspex. He gave a final convulsion and was still.