“There was no mysterious murderer,” Adam interrupted. “They have done this by themselves.”
“What… what are you saying? You mean, tied themselves, then…”
“Not each one—himself. Each other. Look, their heads are firmly tied to headrests, but their right hands are free.”
“There is only one saw,” Eve observed, having taken one more look.
“Yes, obviously, they had to saw each other’s head in turns. But there were enough spoons to scoop out each other’s brains simultaneously. Well, otherwise it wouldn’t be possible.”
“Do you think,” Eve squirmed, “they ate this?
“Give me the flashlight.”
Adam approached the dead bodies and illuminated the drooping open mouths.
“No,” he concluded, “doesn’t look like it. They simply tried to destroy each other’s brain.”
“What for?”
“And for what reason did that guy above beat his head against a wall until his eyes flew out?”
Eve did not answer. She stood, heavily leaning on a door jamb, and again fought against nausea—a nausea from which there was no relief even in vomiting.
“I think, he didn’t beat himself against the wall simply because of rage… or pain,” Adam, who also felt rather nauseous, continued to reason. His eyes automatically fixated on the terrible mess in the open skulls. It was quite apparent, in answer to his own question, that a significant portion of the brain could be missing before one lost the ability to move a hand. But words helped at least somehow to prescind his thinking from the feeling of hopeless horror entangling Adam like layers of a heavy wet rubber sheet which were closing up his nose and mouth, stopping his breathing. “He wanted to destroy his own brain. And tore at it with his fingers after breaking the skull. But to do such with your own head is… not too efficient. With another one it is much easier. That’s why these two tried a more thorough approach.”
He looked around in search of bloody inscriptions which, probably, could explain at least something. But they did not present themselves. Here there was nothing.
On a sleeve of the dead woman, sitting to the left side of the door, it was still possible to perceive an emblem—a dark blue circle surrounded by a red ring. Along the top part of the ring the inscription “HYPERION” was curved. On the bottom there was a figure “III.” In the dark blue circle a hand stretched toward a beam-spreading star. The designer of such an emblem probably considered that the image had come out proud and encouraging. However, it seemed to Adam that this was the hand of one drowning, vainly grasping at air in a last desperate gesture.
On the left breast pocket of her overalls there was one more emblem, but it couldn’t be understood under a crust of blood. Adam had distinguished only the large letters ISA and remembered that it meant “International Space Agency.” Lower there was a rectangular stripe with a personal name. Lida… no, apparently, Linda… A surname was not distinguishable at all. He was going to try to clean off the stripe but heard splashing sounds from bare feet behind him.
“Where are you going?” He turned back. There was already no one in the doorway. “Eve! Stop!”
“I… I cannot” came from a corridor. “I cannot be stopped. It seems to me that I’m at the edge of remembering. I am so frightened! Anything, only not this horror! Not to think! Nottothinknottothinknottothink!” Judging by the sounds, she ran like mad along a corridor towards the lift.
“Eve! Come back!” Adam shouted. “You shouldn’t wander here alone! You have absolutely no weapon!”
But she probably didn’t hear him—or could not conceive words.
“No,” Adam thought gloomy, “I won’t abandon everything to run after her just because she has womanish hysterics. Right now I should exlore everything here.”
He put the skull shard on the lap of the dead woman and unbuttoned her left pocket. What’s here? A comb. Oh yes, to preen feathers is the most important thing for him now—especially taking into account that there is no mirror nearby. He put the useless thing back. And what is in the right pocket? It appeared to be empty. No, there is something. A pen. Nowadays it is seldom necessary to write by hand (he remembered this), but, obviously, such a thing is still included as part of the outfit of astronauts. Could a pen be useful to him? Who knows, but he had neither a third hand nor pockets. He considered dressing in the overalls of the dead man, but he felt no desire to put on those bloody rags—all the more so because all who did this before have died.
Adam realized that all this blood did not belong to one person, or even to two. These two in the infirmary were not the ones who had undressed the pilots. They had obviously removed overalls from other dead persons, and those, possibly, from others. And here now the relay reached the last survivors. Is it possible that the clothes somehow influenced what was going here? No, that’s madness. But what was not madness here? He had better not repeat any of the actions of these predecessors, madness or otherwise.
Adam turned to the male corpse. He pulled out the spoon from yellowish-crimson jumble in its skull. He could not look at it. He had the feeling that the spoon was biting into his own head, so he flung it into a far corner. Then he moved on to the pockets. The right one was plump.
There was something like a scroll inside, which was not just barely twisted but also folded so that it could be pushed into the pocket—a scroll with some drawing… or schematics.
Unfolding it Adam understood that it was not paper. And not fabric as it had seemed to him for just a moment. As the scroll was rolled open completely, Adam understood instantly just exactly what he was holding in his hands.
It was human skin which had been cut off from a stomach. The hole of the navel and the top shred of dark pubic hair were clearly visible. But the rest of the area of the skin was glabrous. The stomach was female.
And on this skin, while it still belonged to its mistress—a living mistress, who bled when it was being done to her—someone had cut out a certain rough drawing. The clotted blood had distinctly depicted its contours and some short inscriptions. At the first moment they seemed to Adam a cabalistic abracadabra, but then he realized that he simply held the drawing head over heels.
Now he understood that what he looked upon was a simplified schematic drawing of the ship. Not all compartments were labeled, and inscriptions resembled a wedge writing, but nevertheless they could be spelled out: “CONT R”, “LIV COMP”, “GEN”, “BIOS.” BIOS is, apparently, an abbreviation connected with computer technology. But why had it been labeled at the infected level with the crucified woman? Also what is “gen,” which is situated, judging by the schematics, exactly in the middle of the ship? Something concerning genetics? (He felt again an attack of irrational fear at this thought.) Well, no. “Gen” is, probably, a generator. The Kalkrin generator, the engine of “Hyperion.” On spacecrafts of the past the engines were situated at the aft end, but a dark starship had other means of movement. She travels by means of the field of dark energy shrouding the ship.
Adam casted almost a mechanical look at the headless body on the couch, then, stumbling on an idea, approached closer. He tried to bring together the edges of her peeled flesh and disemboweled stomach, and then put the “drawing” in from above. Yes, skin was definitely cut off from here. If this woman was lucky, by that time she was already dead.
Why, by the way, is the drawing turned upside down? Was she hung legs up?
Adam decided not to take this dismal picture with him (That guy kept it in his pocket… yeah, and now he is dead, his brains scooped out by a table-spoon.) Eventually, the schematic was simple enough to remember—provided he does not lose memory again.