Michael Crichton - Sphere

“What’s that?”

“Causes sleep.”

“You mean it’s a sleeping pill?”

“No, it’s-it says you can give it in combination with paracin trichloride and use it as an anesthetic.”

“Paracin trichloride… Yes. I have it here,” Norman said. Beth was reading from the screen. “Parasolutrine twenty cc’s in combination with paracin six cc’s given IM produces deep sleep suitable for emergency surgical procedures… no cardiac side effects… sleep from which the subject can be awakened only with difficulty… REM activity is suppressed…”

“How long does it last?”

“Three to six hours.”

“And how fast does it take effect?”

She frowned. “It doesn’t say. ‘After appropriate depth of anesthesia is induced, even extensive surgical procedures may be begun…’ But it doesn’t say how long it takes.”

“Hell,” Norman said.

“It’s probably fast,” Beth said.

“But what if it isn’t?” Norman said. “What if it takes twenty minutes? And can you fight it? Fight it off?”

She shook her head. “Nothing about that here.”

In the end they decided on a mixture of parasolutrine, paracin, dulcinea, and sintag, the opiate. Norman filled a large syringe with the clear liquids. The syringe was so big it looked like something for horses.

“You think it might kill him?” Beth said.

“I don’t know. Do we have a choice?”

“No,” Beth said. “We’ve got to do it. Have you ever given an injection before?”

Norman shook his head. “You?”

“Only lab animals.”

“Where do I stick it?”

“Do it in the shoulder,” Beth said. “While he’s asleep.” Norman turned the syringe up to the light, and squirted a few drops from the needle into the air. “Okay,” he said.

“I better come with you,” Beth said, “and hold him down.”

“No,” Norman said. “If he’s awake and sees both of us coming, he’ll be suspicious. Remember, you don’t sleep in the bunks any more.”

“But what if he gets violent?”

“I think I can handle this.”

“Okay, Norman. Whatever you say.”

The lights in the corridor of C Cyl seemed unnaturally bright. Norman heard his feet padding on the carpet, heard the constant hum of the air handlers and the space heaters. He felt the weight of the syringe concealed in his palm. He came to the door to the sleeping quarters.

Two female Navy crewmen were standing outside the bulkhead door. They snapped to attention as he approached. “Dr. Johnson, sir!”

Norman paused. The women were handsome, black, and muscular-looking. “At ease, men,” Norman said with a smile.

They did not relax. “Sorry, sir! We have our orders, sir!” “I see,” Norman said. “Well, carry on, then.” He started to move past them into the sleeping area.

“Beg your pardon, Dr. Johnson, sir!” They barred his way.

“What is it?” Norman asked, as innocently as he could manage.

“This area is off-limits to all personnel, sir!”

“But I want to go to sleep.”

“Very sorry, Dr. Johnson, sir! No one may disturb Dr. Adams while he sleeps, sir!”

“I won’t disturb Dr. Adams.”

“Sorry, Dr. Johnson, sir! May we see what is in your hand, sir!”

“In my hand?”

“Yes, there is something in your hand, sir!”

Their snapping, machine-gun delivery, always punctuated by the “sir!” at the end, was getting on his nerves. He looked at them again. The starched uniforms covered powerful muscles. He didn’t think he could force his way past them. Beyond the door he saw Harry, lying on his back, snoring. It was a perfect moment to inject him.

“Dr. Johnson, may we see what is in your hand, sir!”

“No, damn it, you may not.”

“Very good, Sir!”

Norman turned, and walked back to D Cyl.

“I saw,” Beth said, nodding to the monitor.

Norman looked at the monitor, at the two women in the corridor. Then he looked at the adjacent monitor, which showed the sphere.

“The sphere has changed!” Norman said.

The convoluted grooves of the doorway were definitely altered, the pattern more complex, and shifted farther up. Norman felt sure it was changed.

“I think you’re right,” Beth said. “When did that happen?”

“We can run the tapes back later,” she said. “Right now we’d better take care of those two.”

“How?” Norman said.

“Simple,” Beth said, bunching her fists again. “We have five explosive spearheads in B Cyl. I’ll go into B, get two of them, blow the guardian angels away. You run in and jab Harry.”

Her cold-blooded determination would have been chilling if she didn’t look so beautiful. There was a refined quality to her features now. She seemed to grow more elegant by the minute.

“The spear guns are in B?” Norman said.

“Sure. Look on video.” She pressed a button. “Hell.” In B Cyl the spearguns were missing.

“I think the son of a bitch has covered his bases,” Norman said. “Good old Harry.”

Beth looked at him thoughtfully. “Norman, are you feeling okay?”

“Sure, why?”

“There’s a mirror in the first-aid kit. Go look.”

He opened the white box of the kit and looked at himself in the mirror. He was shocked by what he saw. Not that he expected to look good; he was accustomed to the pudgy contours of his own face, and the gray stubble of his beard when he didn’t shave on weekends.

But the face staring back at him was lean, with a coarse, jet-black beard. There were dark circles beneath smoldering, bloodshot eyes. His hair was lank and greasy, hanging over his forehead. He looked like a dangerous man.

“I look like Dr. Jekyll,” he said. “Or, rather, Mr. Hyde.”

“Yeah. You do.”

“You’re getting more beautiful,” he said to Beth. “But I’m the man who was mean to Jerry. So I’m getting meaner.”

“You think Harry’s doing this?”

“I think so,” Norman said. Adding to himself: I hope so. “You feel different, Norman?”

“No, I feel exactly the same. I just look like hell.”

“Yes. You look a little frightening.”

“I’m sure I do.”

“You really feel fine?”

“Beth…”

“Okay,” Beth said. She turned, looked back at the monitors. “I have one last idea. We both get to A Cyl, put on our suits, get into B Cyl, and shut down the oxygen in the rest of the habitat. Make Harry unconscious. His guards will disappear, we can go in and jab him. What do you think?”

“Worth a try.”

Norman put down the syringe. They headed off toward A Cyl.

In C Cyl, they passed the two guards, who again snapped to attention.

“Dr. Halpern, sir!”

“Dr. Johnson, sir!”

“Carry on, men,” Beth said.

“Yes, sir! May we ask where you are going, sir!”

“Routine inspection tour,” Beth said.

There was a pause. “Very good, sir!”

They were allowed to pass. They moved into B Cyl, with its array of pipes and machinery. Norman glanced at it nervously; he didn’t like screwing around with the life-support systems, but he didn’t see what else they could do.

In A Cyl, there were three suits left. Norman reached for his. “You know what you’re doing?” he asked.

“Yes,” Beth said. “Trust me.”

She slipped her foot into her suit, and started zipping it up.

And then the alarms began to sound throughout the habitat, and the red lights flashed again. Norman knew, without being told, that it was the peripheral alarms.

Another attack was beginning.

They ran back through the lateral connecting corridor directly from B Cyl into D. Norman noticed in passing that the crewmen had gone. In D, the alarms were clanging and the peripheral sensor screens glowed bright red. Norman glanced at the video monitors.