The water reached his knees - and the numbers on the screen began to blur and climb. 3.9...4.2...5.5...
The full force of the storm had hit!
Don dropped the control handles and dived into the water, face down. He had to clutch on to the sink base to hold himself under, as the air in the suit tried to force him to the surface. There was just barely enough water to cover him. It took all the strength of his arms to keep from bobbing up. He fought grimly, knowing that invisible death filled the air above. He had to stay down.
The water rose, with painful slowness, and he wondered how far the ship had drifted off course. He would be killing himself if he raised his head to look. He might be killing them all if he didn't. How long had he been under? How long did he dare stay away from the controls? The
Chief had said that the radiation bulkhead was big enough to protect the engine-room if they drifted ten, even fifteen degrees off course. That meant that the suns image could move almost to the edge of the monitor screen without endangering the people in the ship. But how long would that take? He had no way of knowing, or of measuring elapsed time. What could he do - what should he do?
Now the water was high enough so that he could turn over on to his back and half sit up. Through the troubled surface above he could just make out the bulk of the TV repeater in the brightly lit room. He could not see details. It was tantalizingly close now, no more than a foot above his head.
He had to look. The others depended on him. Now! Yet he would be committing suicide if he put his head above the water.
Perhaps not the entire helmet. He leaned his head back in the helmet, as far as it would go, then slowly raised up. Carefully... the surface was right before his face... then there was only a thin film of water on the transparent faceplate.
The water ran off from the centre, leaving a clear area, and he could see the screen and the dangling control handles.
The sun's image was off-centre, almost half-way to the edge of the screen.
The count on the Hoyle scale read 8.7.
The water closed over him as he pushed himself down, deep down. With a maximum possible reading of 10 this solar storm was as strong as any he had ever heard of. The water rose with painful slowness.
When he looked again the count was 9.3 and the sun was at the edge of the screen. He had to move the ship.
The surface of the water wrinkled and he saw that two plastic bags were floating above him. The control handles, of course! Moving carefully he managed to pinch the plastic between his gloved fingers, then dragged the handles down on the end of their lengths of cable. Holding them securely he raised his faceplate up again and found that, if he made no sudden motions, he could work the jet and swing the ship into perfect alignment again.
'We've done it!' he shouted, but his voice only echoed back at him from inside the helmet, reminding him how alone he was. He did not try to speak again.
With the peril over he felt suddenly tired - and he knew this was no time to be tired. Worn out as he was, he had to stay awake and alert. He was safe enough in the water, but everyone else depended upon him for their lives. The water level moved upwards. It passed the TV screen and rose higher. When it reached the ceiling and began to flow out into the air conditioning vent he turned off all the faucets. The tension was over and now the waiting began. He blinked and wished he could rub his gritty eyes...
An indeterminate time later he realized with sudden shock that he had fallen asleep - and did not know how long he had been asleep. The suns image was touching the edge of the screen. His hands shook as he brought it safely back to the junction of the crosshairs. The count was holding steady at 8-7. Lower than the maximum, but just as deadly.
How long was the storm going to last? It must have been going on for hours already. For the first time he was concerned about his oxygen supply. The suit was unfamiliar, he had never worn this particular type before, and he had to fumble with the controls on his chest until he hit the right button. The projected dial display appeared to float outside his helmet, in the water.
The oxygen tank was three-quarters empty.
After this he was no longer sleepy He worked the controls automatically, keeping the ship correctly orientated. It was moving less and less all the time as the different motions were cancelled out, one by one.
8-6. The count was dropping, but ever so slowly. His oxygen was being used up even faster. Don breathed as shallowly as he could, and limited his movements. This reduced his oxygen intake. Yet the tank level crept slowly towards the zero mark. He knew that there was still a reserve left after the indicated zero level, but even this would eventually be used up. What should he do then? Choose the manner of his death? From either anoxia or radiation poisoning. The worst part was that there are almost no symptoms of oxygen starvation. The victim just loses consciousness. And dies.
7-6. He would have to estimate the oxygen level remaining, then at the last moment drain the water out of the room enough to open his helmet.
6-3. Soon now. It was past the zero, had been reading zero for a long time. How long? How long was long...?
5-4. Time to drain the water... water... water...
The controls dropped from his hands and he floated limply, oxygen-starved, unconscious.
Sliding down the dark tunnel to death.
'Is he moving?' the voice asked.
'I think so', another voice answered. 'He's coming round.'
Don felt he knew who the men were who were speaking, but he could not see them. Realization finally penetrated that they were talking about him. It took a positive effort of will, but he finally opened his eyes. He was on a bed in his own sick bay, and inside an oxygen tent. Bent over the thin plastic was the worried face of First Engineer Holtz, with Rama Kusum next to him.
'Finally got yourself a patient, Rama,' Don said, and was shocked at the weakness of his voice. What was he doing here?
Sudden memory returned and he tried to sit up.
'What happened? I must have passed out...'
'Take it slowly, sir,' Rama said, gently but firmly pressing him back to the pillows. 'Everything is in the green. We monitored the radiation count in the engine-room, and as soon as it was low enough the Chief and I put on the armoured suits. We really did soak down the control-room getting into you. By then the count was low enough to take you out of your suit. It was a close one, but as far as I can tell from the diagnostic machine you are fine now.'
Dons mind was still unclear, his thoughts muffled.
'What made you come after me?' he asked. 'How did you know I was in trouble?'
'The stern pickup was displayed upon the engine-room screen. There were some most difficult minutes there, in the beginning, when we thought you had lost control. But you did take care of everything. Then, when the storm was almost over we saw the sun drift right off the screen. That's when we came after you.' He smiled. 'So you see it has all worked out just fine, everything is all right now...'
As though to mock his words the alarm siren sounded from the PA speaker and the emergency light began to flash brightly.
'FIRE WARNING... FIRE WARNING...' the recorded voice of the computer said, 'THERE IS A FIRE IN COMPARTMENT 64A'
Don tried to get up, then realized how sick he was. He would be a liability in any emergency. He had to delegate authority.