“Greg? What do you mean?”
Then he heard the unmistakable thud of an airlock hatch slamming shut.
“EMERGENCY’ blared the speakers out in the tunnel’s ceiling, loud enough to be heard clearly through the flimsy accordion door. “EMERGENCY. AIR PRESSURE DROP IN MAIN GARAGE. ALL AIRLOCKS HAVE AUTOMATICALLY SHUT. FOLLOW EMERGENCY PROCEDURES. UNLESS YOU ARE WITH SECURITY OR ENVIRONMENTAL CONTROL GROUPS, REMAIN WHERE YOU ARE. DO NOT MOVE FROM YOUR PRESENT LOCATION UNTIL NOTIFIED BY BASE ENVIRONMENTAL CONTROL.”
The sad sweet strains of the Rose Adagio from Sleeping Beauty filled her mind as Bianca Rhee floated through a nearly-perfect grand jete, higher in the air than any prima ballerina could possible achieve on Earth, arms extended, toes pointed properly, when the loudspeakers bellowed out their warning.
She landed on her toes, stumbled off-balance, and staggered against the flimsy partition that closed off her little practice area from the rest of the main garage. Almost angrily she yanked out the earplug and snapped off the miniature chip player clipped to her belt.
“EMERGENCY,” the automatic warning repeated.” AIR PRESSURE DROP IN MAIN GARAGE. ALL AIRLOCKS HAVE AUTOMATICALLY SHUT. FOLLOW EMERGENCY PROCEDURES. UNLESS YOU ARE WITH SECURITY OR ENVIRONMENTAL CONTROL GROUPS, REMAIN WHERE YOU ARE. DO NOT MOVE FROM YOUR PRESENT LOCATION UNTIL NOTIFIED BY BASE ENVIRONMENTAL CONTROL:”
Bianca didn’t feel any air-pressure drop. Some stupid sensor’s gone down, she thought But she padded in her ballet slippers to the edge of the partition and looked out at the main garage. People were hustling for the hatches that led into the base’s four main tunnels.
And she felt a breeze.
Bianca had screened off this unused part of the main garage to serve as her practice hall. It was as far away from everything — and everyone — else as it could be, a good hundred meters from the nearest airlock.
There was definitely a wind surging through the main garage. She could see dust swirling along the floor. Somehow one of the airlocks to the outside must have been opened and the air was rushing out into the vacuum. A pang of fear shook her. I’ll never get to one of the tunnel hatches in time!
A rack of six spacesuits stood a few meters away, hanging like empty suits of armor against the rock wall. There were racks like this spotted throughout the garage, standing ready against a possible emergency.
Bianca dashed to the nearest suit, ducked under its torso and wormed her way into it. As soon as her hands wiggled into the gloves attached to the arm cuffs, she reached overhead and grabbed the helmet, desperately hoping that the backpack’s tanks were filled with breathable air. She clapped the helmet down on the neck ring and sealed it, then took a deep breath. The seal mechanism automatically activated the air flow.
Okay, she told herself shakily. The gasket around the waist of the torso shell will hold your air; you’ve got a couple of minutes to get into the leggings. It was awkward bending inside the hard shell of the suit’s torso, but she ripped off her ballet slippers and got into the leggings faster than she had ever done before. Then she sat on the floor and pulled on the boots.
I did it! Bianca exulted. I got into the suit. Then she remembered that if she stayed in the suit for more than a few minutes she would get decompression sickness: the bends.
Greg had dragged Melissa from his office, down the tunnel toward the rear of the base.
“You want to destroy everything?” he had screamed at her. I’ll show you how to wipe them all out! All of them!”
Melissa tried to keep up with him but her legs wouldn’t work right in the low lunar gravity. She stumbled, flailed her free arm to regain her balance, then tripped again and fell to the floor. Greg hauled her along, skidding and scraping on the cold rock floor.
Two women and a young man, all in the olive green coveralls of the mining division, rushed up the tunnel toward them.
“What’s the matter?” one of the women asked. “What’s going on?”
“Get out of my way!” Greg roared. “Get out! Now! Leave us alone!”
The two women glanced at Melissa, sitting on the tunnel floor with her legs drawn up, glaring up at them.
“I’m the base director,” Greg bellowed, banging the nametag on his chest with his free hand. “Get out of my goddamned way.”
“Call security,” said the young man. “Let them take care of it.”
They hesitated a moment longer, staring at Greg’s wild-eyed expression and Melissa, her arm still hanging in his grasp.
“Come on,” said the young man. The three of them hurried up the tunnel.
“Assholes,” Greg muttered after them.
Melissa yanked her wrist free of Greg’s grasp. He turned on her, hand raised to strike.
I’ll help you,” she said, climbing slowly to her feet ’You don’t have to drag me. I’ll go with you willingly.”
“You bet you will,” Greg said. And he started down the tunnel again.
“Where are we going?” Melissa asked, trying to keep up with him without stumbling again.
“EVC,” he muttered.
“What?”
“Environmental control center. The air pumps.”
Breathlessly, Melissa answered, “Good.”
Greg felt lightheaded, almost giddy, as he hurried down the tunnel. Don’t run, he warned himself. You might trip yourself and fall. You don’t want to look foolish in front of Melissa. He thought about the veteran Lunatics he had seen taking yards-long strides in the gentle gravity, soaring along like ballet dancers. I’ll show those wiseasses, he thought I’ll show them all. Let’s see how far they can jump when there’s no air left to breathe.
For the first time in his life Greg felt free, totally, absolutely free. It didn’t matter what anyone thought or said or did. This is the end of it all. At last it’ll all be over with, finished. The end of everything. No more fear. All my worries are behind me now.
To Melissa, this tunnel seemed longer than the others. As she struggled to keep up with Greg, she saw that they had passed the area where laboratories and offices lined the tunnel on both sides. Now the doors were farther apart and the labels on them proclaimed MAINTENAISjCE STORES and ELECTRONICS SPARES.
At the end of the tunnel was a dull metal hatch with an electronic security pad alongside it.
“Rank has its privileges,” Greg said, almost giggling as he tapped the keyboard with his index finger. “All the base director has to do to open any hatch, anywhere, is punch in his personal code.”
Greg’s eyes were aglow. Melissa thought he looked — happy. I’ve freed him, she said to herself. I’ve freed us both.
The hatch clicked but did not open. Greg grasped its metal wheel, gave it half a turn and then pushed.
Inside was a shadowy cavem that throbbed with the sound of pumps.
As Greg, suddenly solicitous, helped Melissa over the hatch’s coaming, he explained, “All the base’s air supply is routed through here. That’s the recycling equipment…’ He pointed to a clump of bulky metal shapes connected by a maze of piping. “We’ll take care of them later.”
He pushed the hatch shut, then spun its wheel, locking it.
“Find a tool box,” he ordered Melissa. “There’s got to be tools stashed here someplace.”
“What about those lockers?’1 She pointed to the row of metal lockers a few feet down the wall from the hatch.
“Right’ said Greg. He yanked the lockers open, one after the other, and slammed each door shut again with a disgusted clang. “Emergency space suits, emergency oxygen tanks, extra coveralls — where “do they keep the fucking tools?’ His roar echoed off the bare rock walls.
“Here.” Melissa called from a workbench on the other side of the hatch.
Greg rushed to her. “Right!” He yanked open the metal boxes lining the back of the workbench and lifted out a heavy wrench. “Just what I need.”
Grinning madly, he went back to the hatch and lifted the back cover off the security pad. Then, raising the wrench over his head like a spear, he jammed it into the electronic works of the hatch’s security pad. Sparks crackled, throwing blue-white highlights against his grimacing face.