Michael Crichton - The Andromeda Strain

"The sensors have picked you up," Stone said. "But you have only ten more yards."

Hall glanced back and saw one of the sensor units. It was aimed directly at him. As he watched, it fired, a small puff of bluish smoke spurting from the barrel. There was a whistling sound, and then something struck the wall next to him, and fell to the ground.

"Missed that time. Keep going."

Another dart slammed into the wall near his neck. He tried to hurry, tried to move faster. Above, he could see the door with the plain white markings LEVEL IV. Stone was right; less than ten yards to go.

A third dart, and then a fourth. He still was untouched. For an ironic moment he felt irritation: the damned computers weren't worth anything, they couldn't even hit a simple target…

The next dart caught him in the shoulder, stinging as it entered his flesh, and then there was a second wave of burning pain as the liquid was injected. Hall swore.

Stone watched it all on the monitor. The screen blandly recorded STRIKE and then proceeded to rerun a tape of the sequence, showing the dart moving through the air, and hitting Hall's shoulder. It showed it three times in succession.

The voice said, "There are now two minutes to self-destruct.

"It's a low dose," Stone said to Hall. "Keep going."

Hall continued to climb. He felt sluggish, like a four-hundred pound man, but he continued to climb. He reached the next door just as a dart slammed into the wall near his cheekbone.

"Nasty."

"Go! Go!"

The door had a seal and handle. He tugged at the handle while still another dart struck the wall.

"That's it, that's it, you're going to make it," Stone said.

"There are now ninety seconds to self-destruct," the voice said.

The handle spun. With a hiss of air the door came open. He moved into an inner chamber just as a dart struck his leg with a brief, searing wave of heat. And suddenly, instantly, he was a thousand pounds heavier. He moved in slow motion as he reached for the door and pulled it shut behind him.

"You're in an airlock," Stone said. "Turn the next door handle."

Hall moved toward the inner door. It was several miles away, an infinite trip, a distance beyond hope. His feet were encased in lead; his legs were granite. He felt sleepy and achingly tired as he took one step, and then another, and another.

"There are now sixty seconds to self-destruct."

Time was passing swiftly. He could not understand it; everything was so fast, and he was so slow.

The handle. He closed his fingers around it, as if in a dream. He turned the handle.

"Fight the drug. You can do it," Stone said.

What happened next was difficult to recall. He saw the handle turn, and the door open; he was dimly aware of a girl, a technician, standing in the hallway as he staggered through.

She watched him with frightened eyes as he took a single clumsy step forward.

"Help me," he said.

She hesitated; her eyes got wider, and then she ran down the corridor away from him.

He watched her stupidly, and fell to the ground. The substation was only a few feet away, a glittering, polished metal plate on the wall.

"Forty-five seconds to self-destruct," the voice said, and then he was angry because the voice was female, and seductive, and recorded, because someone had planned it this way, had written out a series of inexorable statements, like a script, which was now being followed by the computers, together with all the polished, perfect machinery of the laboratory. It was as if this was his fate, planned from the beginning.

And he was angry.

Later, Hall could not remember how he managed to crawl the final distance; nor could he remember how he was able to get to his knees and reach up with the key. He did remember twisting it in the lock, and watching as the green light came on again.

"Self-destruct has been canceled," the voice announced, as if it were quite normal.

Hall slid to the floor, heavy, exhausted, and watched as blackness closed in around him.

AVOICE FROM VERY FAR AWAY SAID, "He's fighting it."

"Is he?"

"Yes. Look."

And then, a moment later, Hall coughed as something was pulled from his throat, and he coughed again, gasped for air, and opened his eyes.

A concerned female face looked down at him. "You okay? It wears off quickly."

Hall tried to answer her but could not. He lay very still on his back, and felt himself breathe. It was a little stiff at first, but soon became much easier, his ribs going in and out without effort. He turned his head and said, "How long?"

"About forty seconds," the girl said, "as nearly as we can figure. Forty seconds without breathing. You were a little blue when we found you, but we got you intubated right away and onto a respirator."

"When was that?"

"Twelve, fifteen minutes ago. Ligamine is short-acting, but even so, we were worried about you… How are you feeling?"

"Okay."

He looked around the room. He was in the infirmary on Level IV. On the far wall was a television monitor, which showed Stone's face.

"Hello," Hall said.

Stone grinned. "Congratulations."

"I take it the bomb didn't?"

"The bomb didn't," Stone said.

"That's good," Hall said, and closed his eyes. He slept for more than an hour, and when he awoke the television screen was blank. A nurse told him that Dr. Stone was talking to Vandenburg.

"What's happening?"

"According to predictions, the organism is over Los Angeles now."

"And?"

The nurse shrugged. "Nothing. It seems to have no effect at all."

"None whatsoever," Stone said, much later. "It has apparently mutated to a benign form. We're still waiting for a bizarre report of death or disease, but it's been six hours now, and it gets less likely with every minute. We suspect that ultimately it will migrate back out of the atmosphere, since there's too much oxygen down here. But of course if the bomb had gone off in Wildfire…"

Hall said, "How much time was left?"

"When you turned the key? About thirty-four seconds."

Hall smiled. "Plenty of time. Hardly even exciting."

"Perhaps from where you were," Stone said. "But down on Level V, it was very exciting indeed. I neglected to tell you that in order to improve the subterranean detonation characteristics of the atomic device, all air is evacuated from Level V, beginning thirty seconds before explosion."

"Oh," Hall said.

"But things are now under control," Stone said. "We have the organism, and can continue to study it. We've already begun to characterize a variety of mutant forms. It's a rather astonishing organism in its versatility. " He smiled. "I think we can be fairly confident that the organism will move into the upper atmosphere without causing further difficulty on the surface, so there's no problem there. And as for us down here, we understand what's happening now, in terms of the mutations. That's the important thing. That we understand."

"Understand," Hall repeated.

"Yes," Stone said. "We have to understand."

OFFICIALLY, THE LOSS OF ANDROS V, THE MANNED spacecraft that burned up as it reentered the atmosphere, was explained on the basis of mechanical failure. The tungsten-and-plastic-laminate heat shield was said to have eroded away under the thermal stress of returning to the atmosphere, and an investigation was ordered by NASA into production methods for the heat shield.

In Congress, and in the press, there was clamor for safer spacecraft. As a result of governmental and public pressure, NASA elected to postpone future manned flights for an indefinite period. This decision was announced by Jack Marriott, "the voice of Andros," in a press conference at the Manned Spaceflight Center in Houston. A partial transcript of the conference follows: