On avoiding calamity.

Now a cloudy day over an air force base in California had delayed everything, wreaking havoc on the space station’s work schedule. But this was the nature of spaceflight, the only thing predictable about it was the unpredictable.

An alarming blob of grape juice came floating by Emma’s head.

And here was more unpredictability, she thought, laughing, as a sheepish Luther went chasing after it with a straw. You let your attention wander for just an instant, and there goes a vital tool or a sip’s worth of juice drifting away. Without gravity, an object could end up anywhere.

This was something the crew of Discovery was now confronting. “We had glops of this stuff land all over our aft DAP controls,” she heard Kittredge say over the radio. Discovery’s commander was conversing with Griggs on the space-to-space subsystem. “We’re still trying to clean off the toggle switches, it’s like thick mucus when it dries. I just hope it hasn’t plugged up data ports.”

“You find out where it’s coming from?” asked Griggs.

“We found a small crack in the toadfish enclosure. But it doesn’t look like much leaked out—not enough to account for what’s flying around the cabin.”

“Where else could it be coming from?”

“We’re checking the galley and commode now. We’ve been so busy cleaning up, we haven’t had a chance to identify the source. We just can’t figure out what this stuff is. It sort of reminds me of eggs. Round clumps, in this sticky green mass. You should see my crew—it’s like they’ve been slimed on Ghostbusters. And then Hewitt’s got this evil red eye. Man, we’re scary looking.”

Evil red eye? Emma turned to Griggs. “What’s wrong with Hewitt’s eye?” she said. “I didn’t hear about it.” Griggs relayed the question to Discovery.

“It’s just a scleral bleed,” answered Kittredge. “Nothing serious, according to O’Leary.”

“Let me talk to Kittredge,” said Emma.

“Go ahead.”

“Bob, this is Emma,” she said. “How did Jill get that scleral bleed?”

“She woke up coughing yesterday. We think that’s what did it.”

“Is she having any abdominal pains? Headaches?”

“She did complain of a headache a little while ago. And we’ve all got muscle aches. But we’ve been working like dogs here.”

“Nausea? Vomiting?”

“Mercer’s got an upset stomach. Why?”

“Kenichi had a scleral bleed too.”

“But that’s not a serious condition,” said Kittredge. “That’s what O’Leary says.”

“No, it’s the cluster of symptoms that concerns me,” said Emma.

“Kenichi’s illness started with vomiting and a scleral hemorrhage. Abdominal pains. A headache.”

“Are you saying this is some sort of contagion? Then why aren’t you sick? You took care of him.” A good question. She couldn’t answer that.

“What disease are we talking about?” asked Kittredge.

“I don’t know. I do know Kenichi was incapacitated within a day of his first symptoms. You guys need to undock and go home now. Before anyone on Discovery gets sick.”

“No can do. Edwards is still under clouds.”

“Then White Sands.”

“Not a good option right now. They’ve got a problem with one of their TACANS. Hey, we’re doing fine. We’ll just wait out the weather. It shouldn’t be more than another twenty-four hours.”

Emma looked at Griggs. “I want to talk to Houston.”

“They’re not going to head for White Sands just because Hewitt’s got a red eye.”

“It could be more than just a scleral hemorrhage.”

“How would they catch Kenichi’s illness? They weren’t exposed to him.” The corpse, she thought. His corpse is on the orbiter.

“Bob,” she said. “This is Emma again. I want you to check the shroud.”

“What?”

“Check Kenichi’s shroud for a breach.”

“You saw for yourself it’s sealed tight.”

“Are you sure it still is?”

“Okay,” he sighed. “I have to admit, we haven’t checked the body since it came aboard. I guess we were all a little creeped-out about it. We’ve kept the pallet panel closed so we wouldn’t have to look at him.”

“How does the shroud look?”

“I’m trying to get the panel open now. It seems to be sticking a little, but…” There was a silence. Then a murmured

“Jesus.”

“Bob?”

“The spill’s coming from the shroud!”

“What is it? Blood, serum?”

“There’s a tear in the plastic. I can see it leaking out!”

What was leaking out?

She heard other voices in the background. Loud groans of disgust, and the sound of someone retching.

“Seal it off. Seal it off!” said Emma. But they didn’t answer.

Jill Hewitt said, “His body feels like mush. As if he’s … dissolving. We should find out what’s happening to it.”

“No!” cried Emma. “Discovery, do not open the shroud!” To her relief, Kittredge finally responded, “Roger that, Watson. O’Leary, seal it up. We’re not going to let any more of … that stuff … leak out.”

“Maybe we should jettison the body,” said Jill.

“No,” Kittredge answered. “They want it for autopsy.”

“What sort of fluid is it?” asked Emma. “Bob, answer me!”

There was a silence. Then he said, “I don’t know. But whatever it is, I hope it’s not infectious. Because we’ve all been exposed.”

Twenty-eight pounds of flab and fur. That was Humphrey, sprawled like a fat pasha on Jack’s chest. This cat is trying to murder me, thought Jack, staring up into Humphrey’s malevolent green eyes.

He’d fallen asleep on the couch, and the next thing he knew, a ton of kitty lard was crushing his ribs, squeezing the air out of his lungs.

Purring, Humphrey sank a claw into Jack’s chest.

With a yelp, Jack shoved him away, and Humphrey landed on all fours with a ponderous thump.

“Go catch a mouse,” Jack muttered, and turned on his side to resume his nap, but it was hopeless. Humphrey was yowling to be fed. Again.

Yawning, Jack dragged himself off the couch and stumbled into the kitchen. As soon as he opened the cupboard where the cat food was stored, Humphrey began to yowl louder. Jack filled the cat bowl with Little Friskies and stood watching in disgust as his nemesis chowed down. It was only three in the afternoon, and Jack had not yet caught up on his sleep. He’d been awake all night, manning the surgeon’s console in the space control room, and then had come home and settled on the couch to review the ECLSS subsystems for the space station. He was back in the game, and it felt good. It even felt good to wade through a bone-dry MOD training manual. But fatigue had finally caught up with him, and he’d dropped off to sleep around noon, surrounded by stacks of flight manuals.

Humphrey’s bowl was already half empty. Unbelievable.

As Jack turned to leave the kitchen, the phone rang.

It was Todd Cutler. “We’re rounding up medical personnel to meet Discovery at White Sands,” he said. “The plane’s leaving Ellington in thirty minutes.”

“Why White Sands? I thought Discovery was going to wait for Edwards to clear up.”

“We’ve got a medical situation on board, and we can’t wait for the weather to clear. They’re going to deorbit in an hour. Plan infectious precautions.”

“What’s the infection?”

“Not yet identified. We’re just playing it safe. Are you with us?”

“Yeah, I’m with you,” said Jack, without an instant’s hesitation.

“Then you’d better get moving or you’ll miss the plane.”

“Wait. Who’s the patient? Which one’s sick?”

“They all are,” said Cutler. “The entire crew.”

Infectious precautions. Emergency deorbit. What are we dealing with?

The wind was blowing, kicking up dust as Jack trotted across the tarmac toward the waiting jet. Squinting against flying grit, climbed the steps and ducked into the aircraft. It was a IV seating fifteen passengers, one of a fleet of sturdy and workhorses that NASA used to shuttle personnel between its many far-flung centers of operation. There were already a dozen people aboard, including a number of nurses and doctors from the Flight Medicine Clinic. Several of them gave Jack waves of greeting.