he's…"
"What?"
"Locked himself in."
"Locked himself in? I see … you mean he's barricaded himself in?"
"Possibly."
"Snow, there's someone on the Station. Someone apart from us."
He had stopped playing with the knobs and was leaning sideways, staring at me.
"You've seen it!"
"You warned me. Against what? Against whom? An hallucination?"
"What did you see?"
"Shall we say … a human being?"
He remained silent. Turning his back as though to hide his face from me, he tapped the metal plating with his finger-tips. I looked at his hands; there was no longer any trace of blood between the fingers. I had a brief moment of dizziness.
In scarcely more than a whisper, as though I were imparting a secret and afraid of being overhead, I said:
"It's not a mirage, is it? It's a real person, someone you can touch, someone you can … draw blood from. And what's more, someone you've seen only today."
"How do you know?"
He had not moved; his face was still obstinately turned to the wall and I was addressing his back.
"It was before I arrived, just before I arrived, wasn't it?"
His whole body contracted, and I could see his panic-stricken expression.
"What about you?" he said in a strangled voice, "who are you?"
I thought he was about to attack me. It was not at all the reaction I had expected. The situation was becoming grotesque. Obviously, he did not believe that I was who I claimed to be. But what could this mean? He was becoming more and more terrified of me. Was he delirious? Could he have been affected by unfiltered gases from the planet's atmosphere? Anything seemed possible. And then again, I too had seen this … creature, so what about me?
"Who is she?" I asked.
These words reassured him. For a moment, he looked at me searchingly, as though he was still doubtful of me; then he collapsed into his chair and put his head in his hands. Even before he opened his mouth, I knew that he had still not made up his mind to give me a direct answer.
"I'm worn out," he said weakly.
"Who is she?" I insisted.
"If you don't know…"
"Go on, know what?"
"Nothing."
"Listen, Snow! We are isolated, completely cut off. Let's put our cards on the table. Things are confused enough as it is. You've got to tell me what you know!"
"What about you?" he retorted, suspiciously.
"All right, I'll tell you and then you tell me. Don't worry, I shan't think you're mad."
"Mad! Good God!" He tried to smile. "But you haven't understood a thing, not a single thing. He never for one moment thought that he was mad. If he had he would never have done it. He would still be alive."
"In other words, your report, this business of nervous troubles, is a fabrication."
"Of course."
"Why not write the truth?"
"Why?" he repeated.
A long silence followed. It was true that I was still completely in the dark. I had been under the impression that I had overcome his doubts and that we were going to pool our resources to solve the enigma. Why, then, was he refusing to talk?
"Where are the robots?"
"In the store-rooms. We've locked them all away; only the reception robots are operational."
"Why?"
Once more, he refused to answer.
"You don't want to talk about it?"
"I can't."
He seemed constantly on the point of unburdening himself, only to pull himself up at the last moment. Perhaps I would do better to tackle Sartorius. Then I remembered the letter and, as I thought of it, realized how important it was.
"Do you intend continuing with the experiments?"
He gave a contemptuous shrug:
"What good would that do?"
"Oh—in that case, what do you suggest we do?"
He was silent. In the distance, there was a faint noise of bare feet padding over the floor. The muffled echo of these shuffling steps reverberated eerily among the nickel-plated and laminated equipment and the tall shafts, furrowed with glass tubes, which encased the complicated electronic installations.
Unable to control myself any longer, I stood up. As I listened to the approaching
Sean Platt, David W. Wright