And she was in control of the habitat.
"Beth."
"I'm sorry, Norman. I can't trust you any more."
"Beth."
"I'm turning you off, Norman. I'm not going to listen to - "
"--Beth, wait - "
" - you any more. I know how dangerous you are. I saw what you did to Harry. How you twisted the facts so that it was Harry's fault. Oh yes, it was Harry's fault, by the time you got through. And now you want to make it Beth's fault, don't you? Well, let me tell you, Norman, you won't be able to do it, because I have shut you off, Norman. I can't hear your soft, convincing words. I can't hear your manipulation. So don't waste your breath, Norman."
He stopped the tape. The monitor now showed Beth at the console in the room below.
Pushing buttons on the console.
"Beth?" he said.
She didn't reply; she just went on working at the console, muttering to herself.
"You're a real son of a bitch, Norman, do you know that? You feel so terrible that you need to make everybody else just as low as you are."
She was talking about herself, he thought.
"You're so big on the unconscious, Norman. The unconscious this, the unconscious that. Jesus Christ, I'm sick of you. Your unconscious probably wants to kill us all, just because you want to kill yourself and you think everybody else should die with you."
He felt a shuddering chill. Beth, with her lack of self-esteem, her deep core of self-hate, had gone inside the sphere, and now she was acting with the power of the sphere, but without stability to her thoughts. Beth saw herself as a victim who struggled against her fate, always unsuccessfully. Beth was victimized by men, victimized by the establishment, victimized by research, victimized by reality. In every case she failed to see how she had done it to herself. And she's put explosives all around the habitat, he thought.
"I won't let you do it, Norman. I'm going to stop you before you kill us all."
Everything she said was the reverse of the truth. He began to see the pattern now.
Beth had figured out how to open the sphere, and she had gone there in secret, because she had always been attracted to power - she always felt she lacked power and needed more. But Beth wasn't prepared to handle power once she had it. Beth still saw herself as a victim, so she had to deny the power, and arrange to be victimized by it.
It was very different from Harry. Harry had denied his fears, and so fearful images had manifested themselves. But Beth denied her power, and so she manifested a churning cloud of formless, uncontrolled power.
Harry was a mathematician who lived in a conscious world of abstraction, of equations and thoughts. A concrete form, like a squid, was what Harry feared. But Beth, the zoologist who dealt every day with animals, creatures she could touch and see, created an abstraction. A power that she could not touch or see. A formless abstract power that was coming to get her.
And to defend herself, she had armed the habitat with explosives. It wasn't much of a defense, Norman thought. Unless you secretly wanted to kill yourself.
The horror of his true predicament became clear to him. "You won't get away with this, Norman. I won't let it happen. Not to me."
She was punching keys on the console. What was she planning? What could she do to him? He had to think. Suddenly, the lights in the laboratory went off. A moment later, the big space heater died, the red elements cooling, turning dark.
She had shut off the power.
With the heater turned off, how long could he last? He took the blankets from her bed, wrapped himself in them. How long, without heat? Certainly not six hours, he thought grimly.
"I'm sorry, Norman. But you understand the position I'm in. As long as you're conscious, I'm in danger."
Maybe an hour, he thought. Maybe I can last an hour.
"I'm sorry, Norman. But I have to do this to you."
He heard a soft hiss. The alarm on his chest badge began to beep. He looked down at it. Even in the darkness, he could see it was now gray. He knew immediately what had happened.
Beth had turned off his air.
0535 HOURS
Huddled in the darkness, listening to the beep of his alarm and the hiss of the escaping air. The pressure diminishing rapidly: his ears popped, as if he were in an airplane taking off.
Do something, he thought, feeling a surge of panic.
But there was nothing he could do. He was locked in the upper chamber of D Cyl. He could not get out. Beth had control of the entire facility, and she knew how to run the life-support systems. She had shut off his power, she had shut off his heat, and now she had shut off his air. He was trapped.
As the pressure fell, the sealed specimen bottles exploded like bombs, shooting fragments of glass across the room. He ducked under the blankets, feeling the glass rip and tug at the cloth. Breathing was harder now. At first he thought it was tension, and then he realized that the air was thinner. He would lose consciousness soon.
Do something.
He couldn't seem to catch his breath.
Do something.
But all he could think about was breathing. He needed air, needed oxygen. Then he thought of the first-aid cabinet. Wasn't there emergency oxygen in the cabinet? He wasn't sure. He seemed to remember. ... As he got up, another specimen bottle exploded, and he twisted away from the flying glass.
He was gasping for breath, chest heaving. He started to see gray spots before his eyes.
He fumbled in the darkness, looking for the cabinet, his hands moving along the wall. He touched a cylinder. Oxygen? No, too large - it must be the fire extinguisher. Where was the cabinet? His hands moved along the wall. Where?
He felt the metal case, the embossed cover with the raised cross. He pulled it open, thrust his hands inside.