David Brin - The Heart of the Comet

In spite of the pain in his ankle and the tremor of a fading adrenaline rush he felt good . An atavistic part of him seemed thrilled at having passed through the last few minutes and survived. Action had it’s points. There were some things one could not get in a lab.

With his goggles on, Joao Quiverian looked like some great nocturnal creature. “You had better look at Ustinov,” he told Saul. “He’s in pretty bad shape.”

Saul nodded. “I’ll go get my bag.”

“If he’s got the same toxins in him that got Conti…”

“There are things I can try. But I’ve got to act fast. Help me, Joao.”

Even if I can’t save him, maybe this time we’ll be able to slow the chemical reaction down enough to slot him. Perhaps someday we’ll have an antidote.

The sole remaining lamp burned on, accompanied by the incessant ratchet of the alarm.

Under the glare, Saul picked up his black bag and took up again, after so many years, the practice of medicine.

She scrolled up the lines written yesterday and tried to view them dispassionately. This was her break, and writing poetry seemed a better way to spend it, a quicker mental exit from the grinding relentless mech labor, than slurping up coffee in the lounge. Particularly since there’d probably be nobody else there; anyone not working was surely floating in exhausted sleep.

Crew were supposed to log most of their sack time in the wheel, where centrifugal pseudogravity could mimic the subtle flows that avoided zero-G imbalances. But you got more real rest in Halley’s weak field. The survivors found isolated cubbyholes free of the green gunk and caught what sleep they could on the spot.

The struggle was less panic-driven now, but still critical. They had managed to drive the infestations away from the slots and power stations. By fusing the ice behind the most critical spots, they had denied the things an easy route back.

She should rest, sleep… but sleep wouldn’t come.

The hell with the outside, with grim reality . She plunged into her poetry.

“Um,” she reflected to herself. “Artistic, no. Therapy, maybe.”

CERTAINLY IT REVEALS THE GENERAL TENOR OF YOUR THOUGHTS.

Blue-green letters floated in the holo zone above her.

“JonVon, this is private! I should’ve disconnected.”

SORRY. I DO NOT KNOW HOW TO TELL THIS.

“Common sense should—right, that’s not a characteristic I’ve worked on, have I?”

SOME OF MY SIMULATED PERSONALITIES KNOW RULES, BUT I HAVE NO BASIC UNDERSTANDING OF "COMMON SENSE". PERHAPS IT IS NOT USEFUL IN DAILY WORK?

“No, there just hasn’t been time… never mind.”

MATTERS SEXUAL REQUIRE COMMON SENSE?

“When you’re dealing with humans, yes. Actually, it would be better if you remained silent. Nobody thinks machines have anything to say about sex.”

THERE ARE PSYCHOANALYSIS PROGRAMS I CAN CALL UP, EXPERT SYSTEMS WHICH HAVE A DISTINGUISHED HISTORY OF DIAGNOSING—

“ No , JonVon! Just let me get on with my poetry.”

MAY I WATCH?

“I can hardly keep you from reading my doggerel, can I? It’s in General Manuscripts.”

I CAN CONCEAL RESULTS IN MY OWN BANKS.

“Good idea, actually. I don’t want anybody blundering into this file.”

She stared at the screen. JonVon’s intrusion had made her self-conscious. She had never been so overtly sexual in her writings before, and she felt her passion was an intensely private thing, for Saul only. In Hawaii, men had regarded her as somewhat prudish.

So you’ve always been a little shy about it… so what? You have to overcome that!

She frowned at the poem. Age-old custom dictated that love poems should be written in flowing ink on thick, luxuriant, creamy paper… not glowing letters in open space. Well, the hell with that. Let’s see… my thighs aren’t thick, actually… is that part worth saving for the alliteration?… skip that and try something else …

She stopped, her heart thumping.

SYNTACTICAL STRUCTURE—

“Shut up!”

Virginia unbuckled from her couch, threw aside the link coupling, and launched herself for the doorway.

STORE COMMAND?

“Shove it, for all I care!”

She moved quickly through the corridors, the long glides between kicks seeming to last forever. It would take only a few minutes to reach Saul’s lab—impossibly short, considering how unreachable he had seemed to be, how much she had missed him.

Just before the turn down Shaft 1, which would take her to him, she ran right into Carl Osborn and Jim Vidor, coming down the hall without their helmets on. Both their suits were scratched and blotted with chemical stains. Vidor’s face was puffy, unshaven, and his eyes seemed to drift far away. They were towing a body in a shroud.

“Who…

“Quiverian,” Carl said. “He’s gotten too sick. We can’t wait any longer, or he’ll die.”

“Hi ho, hi ho,” Vidor said with thin humor, “it’s to the slots we go.”

Virginia clung to a handhold. “We… we’ll have to unslot someone.”

“Right,” Carl said worriedly. “We’ve got six almost thawed. Want to decide who’s next?”

“No, I…” She knew she should help, but… “I’m going to see Saul.”

“He’s still off limits except for real necessity,” Carl said stiffly. He stopped his slow kick-glide rhythm and let the body come to a halt. Vidor compensated awkwardly on his own side, looking tired.

“You guys see him. He works beside you all!”

“Sure, but we aren’t intimate with him. You an I both know what you’ll do—”

“Mind your own damn business, Carl!” She felt her face flush.

Carl turned away, obviously trying to keep in control. “Malenkov said Saul’s to be on at least semiquarantine—”

“I don’t think that means anything anymore, now that Malenkov’s dying. Saul is our doctor now.”

“I think it’s a bad idea to risk—”

“Carl, I’ll take my chances.”

“Stay away from the rest of us, then,” Vidor said sternly. “Lintz is an okay guy, but I don’t let him come too close. You touch him, same applies to you.”

Virginia was startled. She liked Vidor, but the man’s face was a stiff mask now, hostile and wary. He tugged at the comatose Quiverian’s tow-line and started it moving again. But his usual deft sureness was gone and he seemed to be having trouble keeping the forces acting through a single axis. He looked as clumsy as a groundhog.