“Uh, thanks.” But he was remembering how few bulbs there were in inventory. Three were gone already. We’re going to have to come up with better tricks than this. We can’t work in goggles all the time, for one thing …

The two men picked their way in low hops past shriveled purple husks over to a charred hole in the yellow floor covering, where the remains of Spacer Garner had tumbled—along with the ill-chosen electric blanket—into a narrow crevice. It was a flaw in the cavern that no one had thought anything of when the chamber was selected and covered over.

“They don’t dig through solid ice!” Vidor sighed. “We thought they might—that they could strike from anywhere at all. What a relief.”

Saul had only been staring, appalled, at the jumble of human remains scattered down a steep crack in the ice. Young Vidor was made of tough stuff.

“They move through low-density veins, then?”

Vidor nodded. “We’ll have to look for more of those and melt ’em shut. I know just how to do it.”

Virginia’s shown me pix of some of his sculptures, Saul remembered. Jim Vidor was a whiz with ice. If anyone could figure out how to seal the chambers, he would.

There came the sound of voices from the Tunnel J entrance. The spacer turned. “I’d better go take the guys some goggles, or shut that lamp off.”

Saul followed. Nothing more could be done for poor Garner, anyway. “Don’t forget the salve,” he called. “You and I are going to get fierce sunburns, as it is.”

In spite of the pain in his ankle and the tremor of a fading adrenaline rush he felt good. An atavistic part of him seemed thrilled at having passed through the last few minutes and survived. Action had it’s points. There were some things one could not get in a lab.

With his goggles on, Joao Quiverian looked like some great nocturnal creature. “You had better look at Ustinov,” he told Saul. “He’s in pretty bad shape.”

Saul nodded. “I’ll go get my bag.”

“If he’s got the same toxins in him that got Conti…”

“There are things I can try. But I’ve got to act fast. Help me, Joao.”

Even if I can’t save him, maybe this time we’ll be able to slow the chemical reaction down enough to slot him. Perhaps someday we’ll have an antidote.

The sole remaining lamp burned on, accompanied by the incessant ratchet of the alarm.

Under the glare, Saul picked up his black bag and took up again, after so many years, the practice of medicine.

She scrolled up the lines written yesterday and tried to view them dispassionately. This was her break, and writing poetry seemed a better way to spend it, a quicker mental exit from the grinding relentless mech labor, than slurping up coffee in the lounge. Particularly since there’d probably be nobody else there; anyone not working was surely floating in exhausted sleep.

Crew were supposed to log most of their sack time in the wheel, where centrifugal pseudogravity could mimic the subtle flows that avoided zero-G imbalances. But you got more real rest in Halley’s weak field. The survivors found isolated cubbyholes free of the green gunk and caught what sleep they could on the spot.

The struggle was less panic-driven now, but still critical. They had managed to drive the infestations away from the slots and power stations. By fusing the ice behind the most critical spots, they had denied the things an easy route back.

She should rest, sleep… but sleep wouldn’t come.

The hell with the outside, with grim reality. She plunged into her poetry.

“Um,” she reflected to herself. “Artistic, no. Therapy, maybe.”

Blue-green letters floated in the holo zone above her.

“JonVon, this is private! I should’ve disconnected.”

“Common sense should—right, that’s not a characteristic I’ve worked on, have I?”

“No, there just hasn’t been time… never mind.”

“When you’re dealing with humans, yes. Actually, it would be better if you remained silent. Nobody thinks machines have anything to say about sex.”

“No, JonVon! Just let me get on with my poetry.”

“I can hardly keep you from reading my doggerel, can I? It’s in General Manuscripts.”

“Good idea, actually. I don’t want anybody blundering into this file.”

She stared at the screen. JonVon’s intrusion had made her self-conscious. She had never been so overtly sexual in her writings before, and she felt her passion was an intensely private thing, for Saul only. In Hawaii, men had regarded her as somewhat prudish.

So you’ve always been a little shy about it… so what? You have to overcome that!

She frowned at the poem. Age-old custom dictated that love poems should be written in flowing ink on thick, luxuriant, creamy paper… not glowing letters in open space. Well, the hell with that. Let’s see… my thighs aren’t thick, actually… is that part worth saving for the alliteration?… skip that and try something else …