"Beth, open the hatch."
She was crying over the intercom. She didn't answer him.
"Beth, can you hear me? Open the hatch."
Crying like a child, sobbing hysterically. "Norman," she said. "Please help me. Please."
"I'm trying to help you, Beth. Open the hatch."
"I can't."
"What do you mean, you can't?"
"It won't do any good."
"Beth," he said. "Come on, now... ."
"I can't do it, Norman."
"Of course you can. Open the hatch, Beth."
"You shouldn't have come back, Norman."
There was no time for this now. "Beth, pull yourself together. Open the hatch."
"No, Norman, I can't."
And she began crying again.
He tried all the hatches, one after another. B Cyl, locked. C Cyl, locked. D Cyl, locked.
"Your attention, please. Thirteen minutes and counting." He was standing by E Cyl, which had been flooded in an earlier attack. He saw the gaping, jagged tear in the outer cylinder surface. The hole was large enough for him to climb through, but the edges were sharp, and if he tore his suit ...
No, he decided. It was too risky. He moved beneath E Cyl. Was there a hatch?
He found a hatch, spun the wheel. It opened easily. He pushed the circular lid upward, heard it clang against the inner wall.
"Norman? Is that you?"
He hauled himself up, into E Cyl. He was panting from the exertion, on his hands and knees on the deck of E Cyl. He shut the hatch and locked it again, then took a moment to get his breath.
"Your attention, please. Twelve minutes and counting."
Jesus, he thought. Already?
Something white drifted past his faceplate, startling him. He pulled back, realized it was a box of corn flakes. When he touched it, the cardboard disintegrated in his hands, the flakes like yellow snow.
He was in the kitchen. Beyond the stove he saw another hatch, leading to D Cyl. D Cyl was not flooded, which meant that he must somehow pressurize E Cyl.
He looked up, saw an overhead bulkhead hatch, leading to the living room with the gaping tear. He climbed up quickly. He needed to find gas, some kind of tanks. The living room was dark, except for the reflected light from the floodlights, which filtered in through the tear. Cushions and padding floated in the water. Something touched him and he spun and saw dark hair streaming around a face, and as the hair moved he saw part of the face was missing, torn away grotesquely.
Tina.
Norman shuddered, pushed her body away. It drifted off, moving upward.
"Your attention, please. Eleven minutes and counting." It was all happening too fast, he thought. There was hardly enough time left. He needed to be inside the habitat now. No tanks in the living room. He climbed back down to the kitchen, shutting the hatch above. He looked at the stove, the ovens. He opened the oven door, and a burst of gas bubbled out. Air trapped in the oven.
But that couldn't be right, he thought, because gas was still coming out. A trickle of bubbles continued to come from the open oven.
A steady trickle.
What had Barnes said about cooking under pressure? There was something unusual about it, he couldn't remember exactly. Did they use gas? Yes, but they also needed more oxygen. That meant
He pulled the stove away from the wall, grunting with exertion, and then he found it. A squat bottle of propane, and two large blue tanks.
Oxygen tanks.
He twisted the Y-valves, his gloved fingers clumsy. Gas began to roar out. The bubbles rushed up to the ceiling, where the gas was trapped, the big air bubble that was forming.
He opened the second oxygen tank. The water level fell rapidly, to his waist, then his knees. Then it stopped. The tanks must be empty. No matter, the level was low enough.
"Your attention, please. Ten minutes and counting." Norman opened the bulkhead door to D Cyl, and stepped through, into the habitat.
The light was dim. A strange green, slimy mold covered the walls.
On the couch, Harry lay unconscious, the intravenous line still in his arm. Norman pulled the needle out with a spurt of blood. He shook Harry, trying to rouse him.
Harry's eyelids fluttered, but he was otherwise unresponsive. Norman lifted him, put him over his shoulder, carried him through the habitat.
On the intercom, Beth was still crying. "Norman, you shouldn't have come."
"Where are you, Beth?"
On the monitors, he read:
DETONATION SEQUENCE 09:32.
Counting backward. The numbers seemed too to move fast.
"Take Harry and go, Norman. Both of you go. Leave me behind."
"Tell me where you are, Beth."
He was moving through the habitat, from D to C Cyl. He didn't see her anywhere. Harry was a dead weight on his shoulder, making it difficult to get through the bulkhead doors.
"It won't do any good, Norman."
"Come on, Beth. ..."
"I know I'm bad, Norman. I know I can't be helped."
"Beth ..." He was hearing her through the helmet radio, so he could not locate her by the sound. But he could not risk removing his helmet. Not now.
"I deserve to die, Norman."
"Cut it out, Beth."
"Attention, please. Nine minutes and counting."
A new alarm sounded, an intermittent beeping that became louder and more intense as the seconds ticked by.
He was in B Cyl, a maze of pipes and equipment. Once clean and multicolored, now the slimy mold coated every surface. In some places fibrous mossy strands hung down. B Cyl looked like a jungle swamp.
"Beth ..."
She was silent now. She must be in this room, he thought. B Cyl had always been Beth's favorite place, the place where the habitat was controlled. He put Harry on the deck, propped him against a wall. But the wall was slippery and Harry slid down, banged his head. He coughed, opened his eyes.