“Does it matter?” Barker shrugged, and the suit groaned on the table. “I’d rather worry about the duplicate being so screwed up that it’s dead, or turned into a monster that needs to die.”
“Well,” Hawks said, wiping his hand over his face, “that’s not at all likely to happen. But you can worry about that if you want to. What you worry about depends entirely on where you draw the line on what parts of you are important to you. You have to decide how much of yourself can be changed before you consider yourself dead.”
Barker smiled coldly up at him. He looked around at the encircling rim of the faceplate opening. “I’m in this thing now, Doctor. You know damned well I won’t chicken out. I never would have. But you know you didn’t do anything to help me.”
“That’s right, Barker,” Hawks said. “And this is only a way in which I might kill you. There are other ways that are sure. I have to do this to you now because I need a man like you for what’s going to be done to him later.”
“Lots of luck, Doctor,” Barker said.
The dressers had closed Barker’s faceplate, and looped the air hoses back into connection with the tanks embedded in the armor’s dorsal plate. A technician ran a radio check, and switched his receiver into the P.A. speaker mounted over the transmitter’s portal. The sound of Barker’s breath over the low-powered suit telephone began to hiss out regularly into the laboratory.
“We’re going to wheel you in now, Barker,” Hawks said into his microphone.
“Roger, Doctor.”
“When you’re in, we’ll switch on the chamber electromagnets. You’ll be held in mid-air, and we’ll pull the table out. You won’t be able to move, and don’t try — you’ll burn out the suit motors. You’ll feel yourself jump a few inches into the air, and your suit will spread-eagle rigidly. That’s the lateral magnetic field. You’ll feel another jolt when we close the chamber door and the fore-and-aft magnets take hold.”
“I read you loud and clear.”
“We’re simulating conditions for a Moon shot. I want you to be familiar with them. So we’ll turn out the chamber lights. And there will be a trace component of formalin in your air to deaden your olfactory receptors.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Next, we’ll throw the scanning process into operation. There is a thirty-second delay on that switch; the same impulse will first activate certain automatic functions of the suit. We’re doing our best to eliminate human error, as you can see.”
“I dig.”
“A general anesthetic will be introduced into your air circulation. It will dull your nervous system without quite making you lose consciousness. It will numb your skin temperature-and-pressure receptors entirely. It will cycle out after you resolve in the receiver. All traces of anesthesia will be gone five minutes after you resolve.”
“Got you.”
“All right. Finally, I’m going to switch off my microphone. Unless there’s an emergency, I won’t switch it on again. And from this point on, my microphone switch controls the two servoactivated ear plugs. in your helmet. You’ll feel the plugs nudging your ears; I want you to move your head as much as necessary to allow them to seat firmly. They won’t injure you, and they’ll retract the instant I have emergency instructions to give you, if any. Your microphone will remain on, and we’ll be able to hear you if you need any help, but you won’t be able to hear yourself. All this is necessary on the Moon shots.
“You’ll find that with your senses deadened or shut off, you’ll soon begin to doubt you’re alive. You’ll have no way of proving to yourself that you’re exposed to any external stimuli. You’ll begin to wonder if you have a mind at all, any more. If this condition were to persist long enough, you would go into an uncontrollable panic. The required length of time varies from person to person. If yours exceeds the few minutes you’ll be in the suit today, that’ll be long enough. If it proves to be less than that, we’ll hear you shouting, and I’ll begin talking to you.”
“That’ll be a great comfort.”
“It will.”
“Anything else, Doctor?”
“No.” He motioned to the Navy crew, and they began to roll the table into the chamber.
“I’ve got a word for the ensign,” Barker said.
“All right.”
The officer moved up into Barker’s line of vision through the faceplate. He pantomimed “What?” with his mouth.
“The name is Barker, son. Al Barker. I’m not just another guinea pig for you to stuff into a tin can. You got a name, son?”
The ensign, his cheeks flushed, nodded.
“Be sure and tell me what it is when I come out of this, huh?”
Fidanzato, pushing at the foot of the table, chuckled very softly.
Hawks looked around. Latourette was at the transmitter control console. “Watch Sam,” Hawks said to Gersten standing beside him, “and remember everything he does. Try not to miss anything.” Hawks’ eyes had not turned toward Gersten; his glance had swept undeviatingly over Weston, who was leaning back against an amplifier cabinet, his arms and ankles crossed, and over Holiday, the physician, standing tensely potbellied at the medical remote console.
Gersten grunted, “All right,” and Hawks’ eyes flickered with frustration.
The green bulb was still lighted over the transmitter portal, but the chamber door was dogged shut, trailing the cable that fed power to its share of the scanner components. The receiver chamber was sealed. The hiss of Barker’s breath, calm but picking up speed, came from the speaker.
“Sam, give me test power,” Hawks said. Latourette punched a console button, and Hawks glanced at the technicians clustered around the input of the amplifier bank. A fresh spool of tape lay in the output deck, its end threaded through the brake rollers and recording head to the empty takeup reel. Petwill, the engineer borrowed from Electronic Associates, nodded to Hawks.
“Sam, give me operating power,” Hawks said. “Switch on.” The lights over the transmitter and receiver portals leaped from the green bulbs into the red. Barker’s breath sighed into near silence.
Hawks watched the clock mounted in the transmitter’s face. Thirty seconds after he had called for power, the multichannel tape began to whine through the recording head, its reels blurred and roaring. A brown disk began to grow around the takeup spindle with fascinating speed. The green bulb over the receiver portal burst into life. The green bulb came back on over the transmitter.
The brakes locked on the tape deck. The takeup reel was three-quarters filled. Barker’s shallow breath came panting through the speaker.
Hawks pressed his hand against the back of his bent neck and pulled it around across the taut muscle that corded down to his shoulder. “Doctor Holiday, any time you’re ready to ease up on the anesthesia…”
Holiday nodded. He cranked the reduction-geared control wheel remote-linked to the tank of anesthetic gas in Barker’s armor.
Barker’s breathing grew stronger. It was still edging up toward panic, but he had not yet begun to mumble into his microphone.
“How does it sound to you, Weston?” Hawks asked.
The psychologist listened reflectively. “He’s doing pretty well. And it sounds like panic breathing: no pain.”
Hawks shifted his glance. “What about that, Doctor Holiday?”
The little man nodded. “Let’s hear how he does with a little less gas.” He put his hands back on the controls.
Hawks thumbed his microphone switch. “Barker,” he said gently.
The breathing in the speaker became stronger and calmer.
“Barker.”
“Yes, Doctor,” Barker’s irritated voice said. “What’s your trouble?”