“Below here? Something’s got to supply them.”
“Right. Tending the fire.”
“Why put it near a vent?”
“Why move to Florida? Warmer.”
“No, wait, that’s the wrong way round. The vent, the vent is here—”
“Because of this.”
“The whole thing’s artificial.”
“The volcanoes, the lakes, they’re made by things like this?”
“Walmsley’s Rule.”
“In spades. Warm currents, food—”
“And an opening to the surface.”
Carlos said, “To do what? I mean …”
“I don’t know,” Nigel said.
“Why are we whispering?” Nikka asked.
Nigel shouted, “Maybe they can hear!”
“Jesus!” Carlos said.
“Then again, maybe not.” Nigel settled back in his couch. “They’ve overheard our motors long before this, if they do. And they must, come to think of it. Acoustics are the fish’s eye.”
Nikka said, “That thing that went by us was luminous.”
“So?” Carlos said.
“There must be a reason for that. To find prey.”
Nigel murmured, “Or lure it.”
Carlos said, “I wonder if I should douse our running lights.”
“It might well be a good idea,” Nikka said.
He snapped off several switches. The control crescent cast angular shadows in the cabin.
Nigel said softly, “Should call Lancer, let them know.”
Carlos did. Before he could explain, Ted Landon came on the line. “We’ve got a solid majority vote on your petition, Nigel. Sorry ’bout that.”
Nigel shook himself from his dreamy state. “What … oh, yes. So?”
“You’ve lost. C’mon out.”
Nigel sighed. Ted was in quite a jovial mood. “Tell him, Carlos.”
Talk continued, but he knew what would come next. He felt a fatigue seeping into him but with it came an old certainty. Ted was a stickler for the rules, especially those rubber-stamped by the consensus mandate of the beloved bloody people.
Carlos spoke with assurance, putting down the facts in steady fashion, orderly and authoritative. He would be more difficult to deal with, the more he clarified his own idea of himself.
Nigel got up and moved casually to the rear of the ship.
“Nature calls,” he said to Nikka. He could not risk a parting wink.
THREE
Their suits were racked in smooth-swiveling braces. He swung one out in an arc until it clipped onto the self suiting platform. He backed into its enfolding grip. He jackknifed forward to get his arms into the sleeves and then worked his head through the neck ring. It enveloped him, an action that to Nigel always carried the quality of shaking hands with a corpse. He straightened and the rack zipped him up the chest. Helmet locks snapped and clicked home. The suit had full thermal insulation and heavy heaters, weighing on him like a blanket.
He shambled into the equipment bay, an ankle protesting the added bulk. A hexagonal frame was resting in the launch pod. It held the six floaters for the next sac. Nigel detached the leaders to the sac so that the frame stood alone. He took the two central floaters out and climbed into the vacant space.
The balance would be wrong. He looked around for something massive. His eye stopped on the medfilter, set down and forgotten hours ago.
Why not? Infernal thing, reminder of countless hours spent in its clutches. This was the last act, but still the thing could perhaps keep him alert, fight off the nausea if it returned. And he needed ballast. He fetched it and clamped it to the midsection of the frame, moving as quickly as he could.
Very well. Time to go.
He turned the manual controls and leaned back. A conveyor carried the frame into the lock. He found a way to clip his suit belt to the frame. Nigel punched in instructions for his suit as the lock sealed behind him. Air fled, pressure dropped, he braced himself—
