He had been nominal leader for more than a week, though without time to think of himself that way. “All six of us? With two or three sick’? Some crew. Half of shift one gone in—what? ten days? No, less.” He shook his head. “Things’re movin’ too fast.”

What would Captain Cruz have done that I haven’t? What have I missed?

“You’re tired.” She put a hand on his shoulder and patted him gently. Like I was a big dumb animal, he thought. Well, I’m not much better than that right now.

“I… I’m glad you came.”

“So am I. You obviously need help.”

“I started unslotting a couple more.”

“Won’t we need a dozen at least?”

“That’s what I need help with. We must have good people, but… well, who would you pick to introduce into this death house?”

Lani nodded silently, her face pensive and withdrawn. He wondered how she was dealing emotionally with the ever-present threat. She might be catching something from him—or vice versa—right now. They had no real idea what vector these diseases followed.

“Not my friends…”

He was surprised. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. I’m figuring on picking people I know can stand up to this.”

“I see. I considered first sheltering my friends; you think of pulling out those you can trust. That’s why you are suited to command, and I am not.”

Carl shrugged. He knew he was no real leader, not remotely like Captain Cruz; he just did what seemed obvious. Her other point was right, though. It was a lot less painful to watch comparative strangers sicken and die.

“I don’t like having to make these decisions on my own. I’m just an ordinary spacer, This is life and death, for chrissakes.”

“So it is.”

In a subtle way Lani withdrew from him, standing apart, face blank and eyes wary, waiting for his orders. She didn’t want the responsibility. Neither do I.

“Okay, I’ve got to tell the system which slots to start warming, or we can’t go any further.” He turned to the big console and began running his hands down the displayed list of crew skills. He pressed a finger at the dimple points next to two names.

“Jeffers and Sergeov,” he said grimly. Then he managed a dry, crusty chuckle. “Boy, are they going to be surprised.”

Enough. Leave his poor body alone.

Saul rocked back from the treatment table and put down his implements.

“Cease code blue. Halt resuscitation procedures,” he said to the spidery med-mechs clustered around the pale, waxy figure that had been Nicholas Malenkov. “Maintain type-six tissue oxygenation, and begin precooling glycogen infusion for term storage.”

It was too late to “sick slot” the Russian. His dying had penetrated too deeply. Saul’s only recourse was to prepare the corpse as well as he could and actually freeze it against a hoped-for day when both thaw and cure might be available.

The master unit beeped twice. Saul, who had been looking sadly at his dead friend, glanced up.

“Yes? What’s the problem?”

“Clarification request, Doctor;” the med-mech announced. “Please select infusion and cooling profile. Also, term-slotting requires a death certification.”

He nodded. With clinical skills as rusty as his, it was a wonder he remembered the right general procedure at all.

“All right, then. Voice-ident:. Dr Saul Lintz citizen of the Diasporic Confederacy, seventh physician on Halley Expedition. Code number…” He pressed fingers at his temples. “I forget. Fill it in from the records.”

“Yes Doctor,” the machine assented quickly.

“I hereby certify Dr. Nicholas Malenkov, citizen of Greater Russia, expedition second physician, to be deceased beyond recall by available means. Cause: massive peripheral neural, damage brought on by undiagnosed, raging infection which crossed the blood-brain barrier three hours ago. Details and tissue analysis to follow in addendum.

“Patient term-slotted on this date…”

Saul looked up at his reflection in the side of the gleaming mech…pale, yes, tired. More tired than he looked, apparently.

What is the date? Was it still November 2061? Or already December?

Have I missed Miriam’s birthday? Only ten years since she died at Gan Illana. And yet it seems like another century.

Sometimes it felt as if he was fighting on for one reason only—so that Virginia could get to see age twenty-nine. If they were still alive, in six months, to put another candle on her cake, then he would find a new priority. One thing at a time.

“Fill in the date. And select the most commonly used slotting procedure for neural-damage cases,” he told the mech.

“Yes Doctor.” The machine would consult the mission mainframe, aboard the Edmund Halley, and take care of the details.

There was little likelihood that medical science would have learned to reverse such massive trauma in eighty years—as well as how to thaw bodies frozen solid as ice. Still, he owed it to Nick to offer him that chance.

In any event, term-slotting did not call for human supervision. Let the mechs do it. If—when—we go home, it’d be best if the procedures used to cool and store the body were as standard as possible.

Saul turned to leave the treatment room, leaving behind him the whirr of automatic processing. As the door hissed shut he rested his shoulder against the fibercloth wall. His arms felt heavy, even in the thin gravity. His sinuses throbbed.

Well? he asked inwardly. What’re you planning to do? Develop into a real sickness and kill me? Or quit bugging me and go away!

The damn cold had been hanging on for eight weeks! In all of a life plagued by little, dripping bouts with one virus after another, he had never, ever suffered anything really serious. But now this lingering, dull ache was really getting to him.

He shook his head to clear it. Make up your damn minds! he told the bugs, at the moment not caring if they were cometary scourges or more banal imports from a warm and fecund Earth. Right now Saul didn’t see anything unscientific in personifying his parasites. He hated them.

Poor Nick Malenkov, survived by the man he nearly slotted. He tried to remember the big, brilliant bear of a Russian the way he had known him in life, but it was hopeless. All he could see was the pale slackness of cheeks unanimated by emotion… the emptiness of eyes unbacked by mind.

Oh, Lord, he prayed. Don’t let anything like this happen to Virginia.

She had used an override to get into his room, two days ago, and by some definitions committed a completely shameless act of rape. His weak protests had been smothered under her warm body, her blazing mouth—as she shred in a moment any microfauna he had, and thereby ended any further argument over protecting her from contagion.

A decisive woman. She had hardly left his side since, except for the fourteen-hour shifts, of course. And although he worried, Saul could not say he was anything but glad.

It’s her choice, he thought. And Carl Osborn will just have to learn to live with it.

For as long as the three of them lasted, at least.

Yesterday he had helped slot Jim Vidor, feverish and raving. At least that time they were able to get the poor fellow in in time. Lani Nguyen had watched raggedly. For lack of any real attention from Carl, she had taken up briefly with Jim. Now she was as alone as before.

His wrist beeper pulsed. The mechs in the recuperation chamber were signaling him.

Enough loafing, he thought. Somebody must have wakened, at last. One of the first six.

Put on a happy face, he reminded himself as he started stepping into isolation garments. While slipping on antiseptic booties he touched the bandage covering his left ankle.