couch. “This one, this one was a Hallowe’en party. I remember the girls had on black and orange dresses, and boys mostly wore spirit costumes. I was about the youngest kid there, and I felt kind of out of place. Then all of a sudden one of the redheads jumps up in a skull mask, hollering, “C’mon, everybody get ready for hidenseek.” And he grabs me , and says, “ You be it,” and before I can even move, he shoves me into a dark closet. And I hear that door lock behind me.”
He moistened his lips. “And then—you know, in the darkness—I feel something hit my face. You know, cold and clammy, like, I don’t know, something dead…
“I just hunched up on the floor of that closet, waiting for that thing to touch me again. You know? That thing, cold and that thing to touch me again. You know? That thing, cold and kind of gritty, hanging up there. You know what it was? A cloth glove, full of ice and bran cereal. A joke. Boy, that was one joke I never forgot… Aunt Jane?”
“Yes, Paul.”
“Hey, I’ll bet you alpha networks make great psychs, huh? I could lie here and tell you anything, because you’re just a machine—right?”
“Right, Paul,” said the network sorrowfully.
“Aunt Jane, Aunt Jane… It’s no use kidding myself along. I can feel that thing up there, just a couple of yards away.”
“I know you can, Paul.”
“I can’t stand it, Aunt Jane.”
“You can if you think you can, Paul.”
He writhed on the couch. “It’s—it’s dirty, it’s clammy. My God, is it going to be like that for five months? I can’t, it’ll kill me, Aunt Jane.”
There was another thunderous boom, echoing down through the structural members of the Station. “What’s that?” Wesson gasped. “The other ship—casting off?”
“Yes. Now he’s alone, just as you are.”
“Not like me. He can’t be feeling what I’m feeling. Aunt Jane, you don’t know…”
Up there, separated from him only by a few yards of metal, the alien’s enormous, monstrous body hung. It was that poised weight, as real as if he could touch it, that weighed down his chest.
Wesson had been a space dweller for most of his adult life, and knew even in his bones that if an orbital station ever collapsed the “under” part would not be crushed but would be hurled away by its own angular momentum. This was not the oppressiveness of planetside buildings, where the looming mass above you seemed always threatening to fall: this was something else, completely distinct, and impossible to argue away.
It was the scent of danger, hanging unseen up there in the dark, waiting, cold and heavy. It was the recurrent nightmare of Wesson’s childhood—the bloated unreal shape, no-color, no-size, that kept on hideously falling toward his face… It was dead puppy he had pulled out of the creek, that summer in Dakota… wet fur, limp head, cold, cold, cold …
With an effort, Wesson rolled over on the couch and lifted himself to one elbow. The pressure was an insistent chill weight on his skull; the room seemed to dip and swing around him in slow, dizzy circles.
Wesson felt his jaw muscles contorting with the strain as he knelt, then stood erect. His back and legs tightened; his mouth hung painfully open. He took one step, then another, timing them to hit the floor as it came upright.
The right side of the console, the one that had been dark, was lighted. Pressure in Sector Two, according to the indicator was about one and a third atmospheres. The air-lock indicator showed a slightly higher pressure of oxygen and argon; that was to keep any of the alien atmosphere from contaminating Sector One, but it also meant that the lock would no longer open from either side. Wesson found that irrationally comforting.
“Lemme see Earth,” he gasped.
The screen lighted up as he stared into it. “It’s a long way down,” he said. A long, long way down to the bottom of that well… He had spent ten featureless years as a servo tech in Home
He moistened his lips. “And then—you know, in the darkness—I feel something hit my face. You know, cold and clammy, like, I don’t know, something dead…
“I just hunched up on the floor of that closet, waiting for that thing to touch me again. You know? That thing, cold and that thing to touch me again. You know? That thing, cold and kind of gritty, hanging up there. You know what it was? A cloth glove, full of ice and bran cereal. A joke. Boy, that was one joke I never forgot… Aunt Jane?”
“Yes, Paul.”
“Hey, I’ll bet you alpha networks make great psychs, huh? I could lie here and tell you anything, because you’re just a machine—right?”
“Right, Paul,” said the network sorrowfully.
“Aunt Jane, Aunt Jane… It’s no use kidding myself along. I can feel that thing up there, just a couple of yards away.”
“I know you can, Paul.”
“I can’t stand it, Aunt Jane.”
“You can if you think you can, Paul.”
He writhed on the couch. “It’s—it’s dirty, it’s clammy. My God, is it going to be like that for five months? I can’t, it’ll kill me, Aunt Jane.”
There was another thunderous boom, echoing down through the structural members of the Station. “What’s that?” Wesson gasped. “The other ship—casting off?”
“Yes. Now he’s alone, just as you are.”
“Not like me. He can’t be feeling what I’m feeling. Aunt Jane, you don’t know…”
Up there, separated from him only by a few yards of metal, the alien’s enormous, monstrous body hung. It was that poised weight, as real as if he could touch it, that weighed down his chest.
Wesson had been a space dweller for most of his adult life, and knew even in his bones that if an orbital station ever collapsed the “under” part would not be crushed but would be hurled away by its own angular momentum. This was not the oppressiveness of planetside buildings, where the looming mass above you seemed always threatening to fall: this was something else, completely distinct, and impossible to argue away.
It was the scent of danger, hanging unseen up there in the dark, waiting, cold and heavy. It was the recurrent nightmare of Wesson’s childhood—the bloated unreal shape, no-color, no-size, that kept on hideously falling toward his face… It was dead puppy he had pulled out of the creek, that summer in Dakota… wet fur, limp head, cold, cold, cold …
With an effort, Wesson rolled over on the couch and lifted himself to one elbow. The pressure was an insistent chill weight on his skull; the room seemed to dip and swing around him in slow, dizzy circles.
Wesson felt his jaw muscles contorting with the strain as he knelt, then stood erect. His back and legs tightened; his mouth hung painfully open. He took one step, then another, timing them to hit the floor as it came upright.
The right side of the console, the one that had been dark, was lighted. Pressure in Sector Two, according to the indicator was about one and a third atmospheres. The air-lock indicator showed a slightly higher pressure of oxygen and argon; that was to keep any of the alien atmosphere from contaminating Sector One, but it also meant that the lock would no longer open from either side. Wesson found that irrationally comforting.
“Lemme see Earth,” he gasped.
The screen lighted up as he stared into it. “It’s a long way down,” he said. A long, long way down to the bottom of that well… He had spent ten featureless years as a servo tech in Home
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