Between the Strokes of Night

Change to a new suit? There was none. They carried spare parts for small suit components, but not for the whole thing.

Think. Bundle him into something that would keep him warm for a long time? Fine — but what? There was nothing.

Take him into the dome, replace the lost atmosphere from tanks, and raise the temperature? Maybe. They could get air in there in less than an hour. But they couldn’t generate heat fast enough. He would be able to breathe, and still he’d freeze to death.

Signal for an emergency landing at the pole of Whirlygig by a small ship? It was probably the best hope — but still too slow. Say three or four hours to prepare, then another three before it arrived here. By then Peron would be an icy corpse. Other ideas? He could find none. His mind ran on, writing its own obituary: Peron of Turcanta, twenty years old, who survived the dunes of Talimantor Desert, the night woods of Villasylvia, the Hendrack Maze, the water caverns of Charant, the Capandor glaciers, the abyssal depths of the Lackro Trench… who had lived on, to freeze on Whirlygig. His name would be added to that list of names that the government never mentioned, the unfortunates who died in the off-planet final trials of the Planetfest games.

Peron turned his suit back to general receiving mode.

“We’re agreed, then,” a clear voice was saying. “Nothing any of us can think of would do it in time?”

The distortion of the damaged radio changed the tone of the voice. Peron came back from his own somber thoughts, and found to his surprise that the speaker was Wilmer.

“Looks that way.” That was obviously Lum speaking. “We called the ship and they’ll have something here as soon as they can, but it will probably be eight hours. Sy did a rough heat loss estimate from the condition of the suit, and calculates that we have a couple of hours to do something — three at the outside.” “Damnation.”

My thoughts exactly, said Peron to himself, amazed by his own calm. Damnation. But what was happening to Wilmer? After tagging along as a good-natured mystery and non-contestant through all the games, he was suddenly the dominant figure of the group. The others were actually deferring to him, letting him control them. Peron had a sudden insight. It was simple shock. Shock had overwhelmed all of them; but somehow Wilmer and he, Peron, the source of all the concern and the one who was condemned to die, could distance themselves from the emotion. He caught sight of Elissa’s horrified face through the faceplate of her suit, and gave her an encouraging smile. Kallen had tears in his eyes, and even Sy had lost that remote look of calm confidence.

“No other ideas?” went on Wilmer. “Right. Give me a hand. Peron, I want to talk to you. The rest of you, I want an atmosphere inside the dome as soon as you can get it. Don’t worry about the temperature, I know it will be low and we can handle that.”

He was opening the green equipment sack that he had carried with him down to Whirlygig, and examining the array of ampoules, syringes, and electronic tools that lay in neat rows within it. After one long, startled look Sy headed for the dome, but the others stood motionless until Lum’s roar: “Let’s get to it.” As he left he turned to Wilmer, his great hands clenched in their suit gloves. “This is no time to talk, but you’d better know what you’re doing. If you don’t I’ll personally skin you alive when we get back to the ship.”

Wilmer didn’t bother to answer. Behind the faceplate his face was set in a scowl of concentration.

“Private circuit. You and I have to talk for a couple of minutes,” he said to Peron, and waited until the personal suit frequency was confirmed. “All right. How do you rate your chances?”

“As zero.”

“Fine. We’ll be starting off without any delusions. I assume you’re ready to take a risk?”

Peron felt like laughing. “You mean, one that gives me less chance of survival than I have now?”

“A fair answer. I know exactly what I’m going to do, but I’ve never tried it under circumstances remotely like these. I’ve got the drugs I need, and the environment in the dome won’t be too far from the lab conditions. All right?” “I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.”

“And I don’t have the time to explain. Never mind. First, I’m going to give you an injection. It will have to go right in through your suit, but I think the needle will take it and the self-sealing will take care of the puncture. After that we’ll get you inside. I think the shoulder seal is best.”

Before Peron had time to object Wilmer had moved to his side, and he felt the sharp sting of a needle in his left trapezius muscle.