Ben's body lay face down on the floor a few meters in front of Hans. He had to be at least partly conscious, because as Hans watched he made an attempt to raise himself on his left arm. He groaned with the effort and fell forward again. His helmet clattered against the hard floor.
Hans started forward, but someone was ahead of him.
"Darya!"
She turned, and the face behind the suit's visor glowed with excitement. "We did it, Hans. We're inside Iceworld, just as I said we would be! But we have to look after Ben." She was cradling the body in her arms, gently turning it over. "Can you get at the external controls?"
"I will do it for myself." Ben spoke slowly. His face was white and sweating, but his next words were clear and rational. "Drugs first. The suit will know what to give me. When it hurts less, I will see if I can walk."
"Not until I've had a good look at you." Hans heard a hiss of gases inside the other's suit and saw the white fog inside the faceplate. In thirty more seconds, Ben should feel no pain. "You may think you feel all right, but you could do bad damage to yourself if you move. We have to get your suit off, examine you, and pad and splint you."
"While I suffocate in hard vacuum? No thanks."
Ben was right, of course. Hans glanced at the monitor in his own suit to confirm the pressure reading. A few moments ago it had been a flat zero. To his surprise the suit readout now showed a small positive value. As he watched, it flickered higher. The suit's sensor, tasting the composition of what lay outside, indicated a mixture of oxygen and nitrogen, plus a couple of percent of inert gases, helium and argon.
"Darya, what is going on here? We're getting an atmosphere."
"We've seen it before, Hans, on Glister and on Serenity." Darya's tone was satisfied, almost smug. "I said it's a Builder artifact, and I'm right. This proves it. Artifacts can tune themselves to the appropriate life form requirements. Wait a minute or two, and I bet we'll have air that we can breathe."
"Where
is
here? I assume we're somewhere inside Iceworld, but you remember how big it is. There could be billions of rooms like this. We could spend our whole lives wandering around."
"We could, but I don't think we will have to. Look about you, Hans. This place has no doors and no windows. Remember the games that the Builders can play with space-time connectivity? I wouldn't be surprised if every grid patch on the surface of Iceworld leads to the same interior chamber. I don't think we need to go looking at all. It will be enough if we sit tight and wait."
That sounded too optimistic for Hans. In any case, there was a job to be done, and sitting tight wouldn't be enough. He looked in through Ben Blesh's faceplate and saw that the pupils of the other man's eyes had contracted to black points. The drugs were taking effect. Ben should be able to talk and think, but he would soon be free of the worst pain.
"Don't try to move. I'm going to take a look at you." Hans began to ease the suit open.
"I'll help as much as I can." For someone in his desperate condition, Ben seemed at ease. "Can't move my right arm, not one bit. When I try to, something grates around inside. Broken bones, I suppose."
Hans eased the suit away from the right shoulder and upper body. The arm was easy, a simple impact fracture of the humerus with no sign of bone projecting or broken skin. He could not splint it, but the upper arm of the suit itself could be stiffened to form a kind of exoskeleton. The bone would have to be set properly later, but for the moment holding the arm in a fixed position would be enough.
The ribs were another matter. From the feel of them at least four were broken. The good news was that none had been driven inward to puncture a lung. Hans could use the suit's own supplies to pad and strap them. That might do the trick. In olden times before antiseptic methods, when it was dangerous to cut deep into the body, strapping had been the accepted and safest method of treating broken ribs. It could work here.
But where was
here
? As Hans worked on Ben, he glanced around the room. Darya was prowling the featureless perimeter. A successful job on Ben would leave the injured man, like Hans and Darya, free to die of dehydration and starvation. The room had breathable air but no sign of food or drink. The suits would feed them for a week or two, but eventually supplies would be exhausted.
Hans reached down to touch the floor. His gloved hand disturbed a thick coating of dust. This room had been unoccupied—for how long? Thousands of years, maybe millions. Perhaps the last time anyone had been here, this whole stellar system had been alive, with a blazing star at its center.
Hans opened his own suit—no point in using its air supply when the room they were in could provide for them. He did everything he could for Ben, then slipped the other's suit back over his body and right arm.
"Now I want you to try to stand up. Can you manage that?" He watched closely as Ben came to his feet. Hans had allowed the suit to continue to provide the medication needed to compensate for shock, but he had set a slightly lower level of painkillers. He wanted Ben to be aware of and favor his injured side, while still not suffering excessive pain.
Ben raised himself. He moved slowly, but smoothly.
"That's good. Can you sit down again—close to the wall?"
"I think so." Ben moved all the way to a sitting position.
Hans nodded approval. "That's right. Now stay there. You'll be better off leaning against the wall and resting."
And so would Hans himself. Suddenly he was bone tired. How long since they had last eaten? He said to Ben, "Can you drink something?"
"I don't know. But I don't really want to."
"Make the effort. See if you can manage a fortified drink."
Ben nodded. Hans took his own advice, sipping slowly and carefully and rolling each sip of tart liquid over his teeth and tongue before he swallowed.
"Darya, why don't you come and sit down with us?"
She glanced back at him and shook her head. She had to be running on adrenaline—he had seen her like this before, too wound up to sit or even to stop moving. She would pay for it later.
If they had a later.
Hans leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. His position was not comfortable, but comfort was a relative term. If he could manage to sleep shackled naked to an iron chair, he could certainly relax now. He was passing into a trance not far removed from sleep when he heard a mumble from next to him.
"Do you know what you are? A screwup, a total hopeless screwup."
Was Ben Blesh talking to Hans? But then he went on, "You say you're a survival specialist. You told Arabella Lund that it's what you'd always wanted to be, what you dreamed of doing. But look at you. You didn't help anyone to survive. You couldn't even save yourself. Other people had to do that for you. What are you going to do now? Some big deed of heroism, something that will save everybody? You think you'd die to achieve that, but I doubt that you'll have the chance. You're a screwup, a burden on others. You'll drag them down, unless you take the decent way out and kill yourself so they don't have to look after you."
Hans could not help listening, but what he heard did not worry him. A combination of shock, injury, and medications was at work on Ben Blesh, allowing deep-seated thoughts of inadequacy and self-doubt to emerge. Ideas like that normally lay in the mind's lowest levels, hidden away from the rest of the world. Hans didn't think any the worse of Ben because of them. He wondered what would emerge from his own mouth in similar circumstances. Nothing to be proud of, you could be sure of that—but nothing to be ashamed of, either, if he did as well as Ben. The other man wanted to be useful, to save others, to die himself if he had to.
As Hans drifted away again toward sleep, he reached a decision. When they emerged—if they emerged—from the interior of Iceworld, he would treat Ben Blesh with a lot more respect. It was the old story. You could train a man or woman as much as you liked in the peace and quiet of a training camp, but character developed and showed itself only in the rough-and-tumble messiness of the real world.
In situations, in fact, just like this one. Ben Blesh was discovering, the hard way but the only way, his own strength of character.
"Hans, Hans—they're here!"
Darya's urgent tone jerked him out of his dream state. He sat upright, stared around, and saw nothing. The room was as empty now as when they arrived.
"What's coming? Who's coming?"
"I don't know. But Hans, look at the floor."
He glanced down. Beyond his outstretched legs the floor of the room was dusted with sparks of orange light. They intensified as he watched. He touched Ben's left arm—the good one. Ben said, "It's all right. I'm all right. I'm awake."
Darya backed up toward the wall. Hans could see the sparks intensifying at the center of the room, forming a brighter disk of orange. Darya moved to his side and they waited, huddling closer together as the orange circle brightened. And then, just as slowly, it began to fade.
Hans took his first deep breath for ages. "False alarm. Darya, you are the Builder expert. Do you have any idea what's going on?"
She silenced him with a wave of her hand. "No false alarm. Something
is
coming. Look."
The center of the sparkling circle was changing. At its middle a dot of silver had appeared. While they watched that dot grew in size, bulging through the floor and slowly rising. The rounded bulge lifted farther to become a hemisphere, paused, then rose again until it was a wobbling sphere of quicksilver supported on a slender silver tail. At the upper end a narrow neck formed, bearing a pentagonal silver tip. The five-sided head turned, questing.
"What is it?" Ben sounded nervous, like the youth that he was. "Is that a Builder?"
"It's not a Builder. But the Builders made it." Darya raised her hand toward the trembling sphere. "Can you understand us? Oh, Hans, of course it can't. We're in the Sag Arm. No Builder construct here will ever have heard human speech, even if all the languages in the galaxy are somewhere in its data base."
Ben said, "So what happens now? Do we sit here until it gets tired and goes away again?"
"No. We
train
it. It will learn our speech, but it needs a sample to analyze. We have to keep talking, to it or to each other. It shouldn't matter which."
The silver sphere was beginning to make sounds of its own. A steady hissing was interrupted now and again by a high-pitched whistle and deep rumbles like a volcano ready to erupt.
"Talk about what?" Ben asked. Hans could relate to that question. His own mind had become a total blank.
"I told you, talk about anything at all. It needs
samples
." Darya took a step forward and recited in a monotone, "In this life stage a Ditron is solitary, energetic, and antisocial. Attempts to export S-2 stage Ditrons to other worlds have all failed, not because the organism dies but because it never ceases to feed voraciously, to attack its captors at every opportunity, and to try to escape. A confined S-2 will solve within minutes a maze that will hold most humans or Cecropians for an hour or more.
"The S-2 life cycle stage lasts for fourteen years, during all of which time the Ditron grows constantly. At the end of this period it masses twelve tons and is fifteen meters long. . . . "
Hans realized that she was quoting the Ditron entry from the
Universal Species Catalog
, which she apparently knew by heart. He had to hope that Darya was right, that it made no difference what you chose as a sample of human speech—because the Ditrons when fully grown to their S-3 stage were brainless bipeds, sometimes kept by Cecropians as pets. It was hard to imagine that anything in the Sag Arm cared to learn about their life cycle.
Darya paused, and the rumblings from the sphere rose in pitch. Meaningless grunts shaped themselves, added sibilants, and interrupted those with what sounded like a series of pure vowel sounds.
"Eeeee—ooooo—aaaaa—"
Darya said urgently, "Hans, come on. Help me out. We need
variety
here. It has to hear other voices and other words."
Variety? Well, Hans could hardly do worse than a lecture on Ditrons.
"The inhabitants of the worlds that comprise the Phemus Circle are by far the poorest of all the clades. Part of the reason for that is natural. The planets tend to be metal-poor and near the edge of habitable life zones for their parent stars. But another part of the reason for their poverty has nothing to do with nature. It is a consequence of a repressive central government, which provides itself with many luxuries while finding it to its own advantage to make sure that most worlds remain marginally habitable. The residents of these oppressed planets endure shortened and impoverished lives—"
"Hans, I didn't ask you for a revolutionary manifesto. You nearly got yourself killed trying to change the Phemus Circle government."
"You told me to speak. You didn't tell me it had to be on a subject that you personally find acceptable."
The sphere muttered, "Septable. Septable. Ax-sept-able."
Ben said, "I can't believe this. It's actually working. That thing is trying to make speaking noises."
"Eaking—eaking—speaking."
"Come on, Ben. It needs to hear as many different voices as possible. Just
talk
, it doesn't matter what about. Whatever is on your mind."
"On my mind? Nothing's on my mind. Or my body's on my mind, and not much else. I've been doing what Captain Rebka told me to do, and trying to assess my own condition. I'm not in great pain, but I'm in rotten shape. I count five ribs gone, and I feel the ends grating against each other whenever I move. Talking is all very well, but if we ever get to
ask questions
, I have a few. Professor Lang, you know more about this than anybody. Can it do something to help us? I don't mean just
talk
to us, I mean get us out of this place."
The sphere said, abruptly and quite clearly, "Get us out of this place. Who are you?"
Rebka muttered, "One hell of a question, that. Answering it could take days."