Six crew members raced relievedly for home. Six crew members, and something else named Kane. .
They sat around the mess table and sipped coffee, tea or other warm liquid stimulants according to taste and habit. Their relaxed postures reflected their current state of mind, which until recently had been stiff as glass and twice as fragile. Now legs sprawled unconcernedly over chair arms, and backs slumped against cushions.
Lambert was still up on the bridge, making final course checks before she'd permit herself the luxury of collapsing. Ash was down in the infirmary, keeping watch over Kane. The executive officer and his condition were the principal topics of conversation.
Parker downed steaming tea, smacked his lips indelicately, and proposed with his usual confidence, 'The best thing to do is just freeze him. Arrest the goddamn disease.'
'We don't know that freezing will alter his condition in any way,' Dallas argued. 'It might make him worse. What affects Earthside diseases might only intensify whatever this is that has a hold on him.'
'It's a damn sight better than doing nothing.' Parker waved the cup like a baton. 'And that's what the autodoc's done for him so far: nothing. Whatever he's got is beyond its capability to handle, just like Ash said. That medical computer's set up to handle things like zero-gee sickness and broken bones, not something like this. We all agree Kane needs specialized help.'
'Which you just admitted we can't offer him.'
'Right.' Parker leaned back in his chair. 'Exactly. So I say freeze him until we get back home and a doc specializing in alien diseases can run over him.'
'Right,' added Brett.
Ripley shook her head, looked put upon. 'Whenever he says anything, you say "right." You know that, Brett?'
He grinned. 'Right.'
She turned to face the engineer. 'What do you think about that, Parker? Your staff just follows you around and says "right". Like regular parrots.'
Parker turned to his colleague. 'Yeah. Shape up. What are you, some kind of parrot?'
'Right.'
'Oh, knock it off.' Dallas was sorry for the unthinking comment. A little levity would do them some good, and he had to up and step on it. Why did he have to be like that? The relationships among the members of the tug's crew were more informal ones among equals than a boss-and-employee type of chain of command. So, why did he all of a sudden feel compelled to play captain?
Perhaps because they were in a crisis situation of sorts and someone had to officially be 'in charge.' He was stuck with the responsibility. Lousy job. Right now he'd much rather have Ripley's or Parker's. Especially Parkers. The two engineers could squat back in their private cubicle and blithely ignore everything that didn't directly affect them. So long as they kept the engines and ship's systems functioning, they were answerable to no one save each other.
It occurred to Dallas that he didn't particularly like making decisions. Maybe that was why he was commanding an old tug instead of a liner. More revealingly, maybe that was why he never complained about it. As tug captain he could spend most of his ship time in hypersleep, doing nothing but dreaming and collecting his salary. He didn't have to make decisions in hypersleep.
Soon, he assured himself. Soon they could all return to the private comforts of their individual coffins. The needles would come down, the soporifics would enter their veins and numb their brains, and they would drift pleasantly away, away to the land where decisions no longer had to be made and the unpleasant surprises of a hostile universe could not intrude.
As soon as they finished their coffee.
'Kane will have to go into quarantine,' he said absently, sipping at his mug.
'Yeah, and so will we.' Ripley looked dismayed at the thought. That was understandable. They would travel all the way back to Earth, only to spend weeks in isolation until the medics were convinced none of them harbored anything similar to what had flattened Kane. Visions of green grass underfoot and blue skies filled her mind. She saw a beach and a blissfully ground bound little town on the coast of El Salvador. It was painful to have to force them out.
Eyes turned as a new figure joined them. Lambert looked tired and depressed.
'How about a little something to lower your spirits?' she told them.
'Thrill me.' Dallas tried to prepare himself mentally for what he suspected was coming. He knew what the navigator had remained on the bridge to work out.
'According to my calculations, based on the time spent getting to and from that unscheduled stop we made, the amount of time spent making the detour. '
'Give me the short version,' Dallas said, interrupting her. 'We know we went off course to trace that signal. How long to Earth?'
She finished drawing a cup of coffee for herself, slumped into a chair, and said sadly, 'Ten months.'
'Christ.' Ripley stared at the bottom of her cup. Clouds and grass and beach receded farther in her mind, blended into a pale blue-green haze well out of reach. True, ten months in hypersleep was little different from a month. But their minds worked with real time. Ripley would rather have heard six months instead of the projected ten.
The intercom beeped for attention and Dallas acknowledged. 'What's up, Ash?'
'Come see Kane right away.' The request was urgently phrased, yet with a curious hesitancy to it.
Dallas sat up straight, as did the others at the table. 'Some change in his condition? Serious?'
'It's simpler if you just come see him.'
There was a concerted rush for the corridor. Coffee remained steaming on the deserted table.
Horrible visions clouded Dallas's thoughts as he made his way down to the infirmary with the others trailing behind. What gruesome aftereffects had the alien disease produced in the exec? Dallas imagined a swarm of tiny grey hands, their single eyes shining wetly, crawling possessively over the infirmary walls, or some leprous fungus enveloping the rotting corpse of the luckless Kane.
They reached the infirmary, panting from the effort of running down corridor and companionways. There was no cluster of replicated alien hands crawling on the walls. No alien growth, fungoid or otherwise, decorated the body of the executive officer. Ash had greatly understated the matter when he'd reported a change in Kane's condition.
The exec was sitting up on the medical platform. His eyes were open and clear, functioning in proper concert with his brain. Those eyes turned to take in the knot of gaping arrivals.
'Kane?' Lambert couldn't believe it. 'Are you all right?' He looks fine, she thought dazedly. As though nothing had ever happened.
'You want anything?' asked Ripley, when he did not respond to Lambert's query.
'Mouth's dry.' Dallas abruptly remembered what Kane, in his present state, reminded him of: a man just coming out of amnesia. The exec looked alert and fit, but puzzled for no particular reason, as though he were still trying to organize his thoughts. 'Can I have some water?'
Ash moved quickly to a dispenser, drew a plastic cupful, and handed it to Kane. The exec downed it in a single long swallow. Dallas noted absently that muscular co-ordination seemed normal. The hand-to-mouth drinking movements had been performed instinctively, without forethought.
While enormously gratifying, the situation was ridiculous. There had to be something wrong with him.
'More,' was all Kane said, continuing to act like, a man in complete control of himself. Ripley found a large container, filled it brim full, and handed it to him. He downed the contents like a man who'd just spent ten years wandering the deserts of Piolin, then sagged back on the padded platform, panting.
'How do you feel?' asked Dallas.
'Terrible. What happened to me?'