Phoenix Without Ashes by Harlan Ellison, Edward Bryant Page B
Authors: Harlan Ellison, Edward Bryant
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no more energy from the stars. Tired, thirsty, hungry, his shoulder throbbing, bladder aching with pressure, Devon pulled himself back along the safety line to the edge of the ruined dome.
But to which hatch? There were three in a row. The hatch through which he had originally entered the viewport chamber had cycled shut.
Devon pressed the red panel on the hatch nearest him. The metal disc swung away from him easily; there was no outrush of air. Devon grasped the rim of the hatch opening and propelled himself through. He found himself in a narrow tunnel, illuminated by a dim, blue glow. He started to turn around, but the hatch behind him had sealed itself. The “Open” panel glowed red; Devon assumed the door would open if he touched it.
On impulse, he continued along the tunnel. Pipes and conduit lined the walls. Occasionally the smooth surfaces were raw and deformed as though the corridor had at one time been compressed and then wrenched straight again.
A dozen meters farther along, he saw something hanging in the blue gloom. Closer, he realized it was a dead woman lying on her back in mid-tunnel. Her light hair floated out around her head, her mouth was open, her eyes stared. She wore no helmet or protective suit, but was clad in a light blue coverall. A triangular insignia was stitched in the fabric over her right breast.
She was very beautiful. Devon wondered who she was, where had she come from, what had happened to her? He edged past the corpse and pushed off from the bulkhead.
Farther along the tunnel he encountered a broken conduit and great globules of water hanging suspended. They hung like jewels; and then, as Devon sailed through them, they dispersed, shattered against him, clubbed up again. His thirst asserted itself and his hands moved to the juncture of helmet and suit. Then he remembered the dead woman’s face and continued resolutely along the passage.
The end of the tunnel brought a console covered with dials and gauges. Beside the console was another circular hatch. The light panel read:
MEMORY BANK TERMINAL 1123-L
ACCESS LOCKPORT
Devon reached to touch the familiar square. Another crimson warning plate flashed on:
EQUALIZE PRESSURE
BEFORE ADMITTANCE
He touched that plate instead. It blinked green and air hissed into the tunnel. The lockport swung open.
Devon remembered his experience with the first lockport; he entered the opening feet-first. He had guessed correctly—gravity in the next chamber had not been cut off. He felt the uncomfortable tug of weight as he dropped beyond the threshold.
He was awed by the room in which he found himself. At least a hundred and fifty meters across, had it been plowed ground it could have provided corn and potatoes for a single family for an entire cycle. The chamber was fitted with clusters of comfortable-appearing chairs, which looked as though they could mold themselves to the form of his body. One wall was lined solely with racks of metal cubes, each cube about half the size of Devon’s fist. A blocky instrument, the shape and size of a kitchen table, stood a few meters away. It was made of some translucent substance; Devon saw movement from within, waves of color swirling like oil on water. The top of the device was honeycombed with square depressions.
Devon started toward the racks of cubes, but his bladder reminded him of bodily priorities. He surveyed the chamber again, but there was no private place for proper urination.
He raised his hands to the gasket around his neck; the helmet clicked, easily rotated half a turn, and he lifted it off. He touched the suit at the base of his throat. The bluestrips unsealed, separating just ahead of his finger as he traced a line down the front.
Devon looked for the least conspicuous area of the chamber. Finally he left a yellow puddle in the far corner. At the last moment he had nearly been unable to relieve himself; shamed and sure that here, unlike in the hills of Cypress Corners, someone was
But to which hatch? There were three in a row. The hatch through which he had originally entered the viewport chamber had cycled shut.
Devon pressed the red panel on the hatch nearest him. The metal disc swung away from him easily; there was no outrush of air. Devon grasped the rim of the hatch opening and propelled himself through. He found himself in a narrow tunnel, illuminated by a dim, blue glow. He started to turn around, but the hatch behind him had sealed itself. The “Open” panel glowed red; Devon assumed the door would open if he touched it.
On impulse, he continued along the tunnel. Pipes and conduit lined the walls. Occasionally the smooth surfaces were raw and deformed as though the corridor had at one time been compressed and then wrenched straight again.
A dozen meters farther along, he saw something hanging in the blue gloom. Closer, he realized it was a dead woman lying on her back in mid-tunnel. Her light hair floated out around her head, her mouth was open, her eyes stared. She wore no helmet or protective suit, but was clad in a light blue coverall. A triangular insignia was stitched in the fabric over her right breast.
She was very beautiful. Devon wondered who she was, where had she come from, what had happened to her? He edged past the corpse and pushed off from the bulkhead.
Farther along the tunnel he encountered a broken conduit and great globules of water hanging suspended. They hung like jewels; and then, as Devon sailed through them, they dispersed, shattered against him, clubbed up again. His thirst asserted itself and his hands moved to the juncture of helmet and suit. Then he remembered the dead woman’s face and continued resolutely along the passage.
The end of the tunnel brought a console covered with dials and gauges. Beside the console was another circular hatch. The light panel read:
MEMORY BANK TERMINAL 1123-L
ACCESS LOCKPORT
Devon reached to touch the familiar square. Another crimson warning plate flashed on:
EQUALIZE PRESSURE
BEFORE ADMITTANCE
He touched that plate instead. It blinked green and air hissed into the tunnel. The lockport swung open.
Devon remembered his experience with the first lockport; he entered the opening feet-first. He had guessed correctly—gravity in the next chamber had not been cut off. He felt the uncomfortable tug of weight as he dropped beyond the threshold.
He was awed by the room in which he found himself. At least a hundred and fifty meters across, had it been plowed ground it could have provided corn and potatoes for a single family for an entire cycle. The chamber was fitted with clusters of comfortable-appearing chairs, which looked as though they could mold themselves to the form of his body. One wall was lined solely with racks of metal cubes, each cube about half the size of Devon’s fist. A blocky instrument, the shape and size of a kitchen table, stood a few meters away. It was made of some translucent substance; Devon saw movement from within, waves of color swirling like oil on water. The top of the device was honeycombed with square depressions.
Devon started toward the racks of cubes, but his bladder reminded him of bodily priorities. He surveyed the chamber again, but there was no private place for proper urination.
He raised his hands to the gasket around his neck; the helmet clicked, easily rotated half a turn, and he lifted it off. He touched the suit at the base of his throat. The bluestrips unsealed, separating just ahead of his finger as he traced a line down the front.
Devon looked for the least conspicuous area of the chamber. Finally he left a yellow puddle in the far corner. At the last moment he had nearly been unable to relieve himself; shamed and sure that here, unlike in the hills of Cypress Corners, someone was
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