Think!

Fourteen hours back to the equator — say that could be shaved to ten hours at maximum speed. A few minutes in the launch catapult, then another six or seven hours to ship rendezvous. Hopeless. Even with full insulation, in these temperatures the suit would protect him for only three or four hours. He’d be dead of hypothermia long before he reached the equator.

Change to a new suit? There was none. They carried spare parts for small suit components, but not for the whole thing.

Think. Bundle him into something that would keep him warm for a long time? Fine — but what? There was nothing.

Take him into the dome, replace the lost atmosphere from tanks, and raise the temperature? Maybe. They could get air in there in less than an hour. But they couldn’t generate heat fast enough. He would be able to breathe, and still he’d freeze to death.

Signal for an emergency landing at the pole of Whirlygig by a small ship? It was probably the best hope — but still too slow. Say three or four hours to prepare, then another three before it arrived here. By then Peron would be an icy corpse. Other ideas? He could find none. His mind ran on, writing its own obituary: Peron of Turcanta, twenty years old, who survived the dunes of Talimantor Desert, the night woods of Villasylvia, the Hendrack Maze, the water caverns of Charant, the Capandor glaciers, the abyssal depths of the Lackro Trench… who had lived on, to freeze on Whirlygig. His name would be added to that list of names that the government never mentioned, the unfortunates who died in the off-planet final trials of the Planetfest games.

Peron turned his suit back to general receiving mode.

“We’re agreed, then,” a clear voice was saying. “Nothing any of us can think of would do it in time?”

The distortion of the damaged radio changed the tone of the voice. Peron came back from his own somber thoughts, and found to his surprise that the speaker was Wilmer.

“Looks that way.” That was obviously Lum speaking. “We called the ship and they’ll have something here as soon as they can, but it will probably be eight hours. Sy did a rough heat loss estimate from the condition of the suit, and calculates that we have a couple of hours to do something — three at the outside.” “Damnation.”

My thoughts exactly, said Peron to himself, amazed by his own calm. Damnation. But what was happening to Wilmer? After tagging along as a good-natured mystery and non-contestant through all the games, he was suddenly the dominant figure of the group. The others were actually deferring to him, letting him control them. Peron had a sudden insight. It was simple shock. Shock had overwhelmed all of them; but somehow Wilmer and he, Peron, the source of all the concern and the one who was condemned to die, could distance themselves from the emotion. He caught sight of Elissa’s horrified face through the faceplate of her suit, and gave her an encouraging smile. Kallen had tears in his eyes, and even Sy had lost that remote look of calm confidence.

“No other ideas?” went on Wilmer. “Right. Give me a hand. Peron, I want to talk to you. The rest of you, I want an atmosphere inside the dome as soon as you can get it. Don’t worry about the temperature, I know it will be low and we can handle that.”

He was opening the green equipment sack that he had carried with him down to Whirlygig, and examining the array of ampoules, syringes, and electronic tools that lay in neat rows within it. After one long, startled look Sy headed for the dome, but the others stood motionless until Lum’s roar: “Let’s get to it.” As he left he turned to Wilmer, his great hands clenched in their suit gloves. “This is no time to talk, but you’d better know what you’re doing. If you don’t I’ll personally skin you alive when we get back to the ship.”

Wilmer didn’t bother to answer. Behind the faceplate his face was set in a scowl of concentration.

“Private circuit. You and I have to talk for a couple of minutes,” he said to Peron, and waited until the personal suit frequency was confirmed. “All right. How do you rate your chances?”

“As zero.”

“Fine. We’ll be starting off without any delusions. I assume you’re ready to take a risk?”

Peron felt like laughing. “You mean, one that gives me less chance of survival than I have now?”

“A fair answer. I know exactly what I’m going to do, but I’ve never tried it under circumstances remotely like these. I’ve got the drugs I need, and the environment in the dome won’t be too far from the lab conditions. All right?” “I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.”

“And I don’t have the time to explain. Never mind. First, I’m going to give you an injection. It will have to go right in through your suit, but I think the needle will take it and the self-sealing will take care of the puncture. After that we’ll get you inside. I think the shoulder seal is best.”

Before Peron had time to object Wilmer had moved to his side, and he felt the sharp sting of a needle in his left trapezius muscle.

“Now we have less than a minute before you’ll begin to feel dizzy.” Wilmer had thrown the hypodermic away and was taking another from his case. “Listen closely. I want you to crack all the suit seals so we can easily take it off you when you’re unconscious. Don’t talk, and go on breathing as shallowly as you can. When you feel you are going under, don’t try to fight it. Let it happen. All right?”

The chilly area in the center of his stomach was spreading rapidly to engulf his whole torso. At the same time he had the feeling that the horizon of Whirlygig was retreating steadily from him, becoming farther and farther away. He nodded to Wilmer, and manipulated the control that transferred all suit seals to external access. His own breathing felt harsh and rapid, and he struggled to inhale and exhale slowly and steadily.

“Good man. Sorry I don’t have time to explain, but I’ve never heard of this situation happening before. I’ll probably get slaughtered when they find out what I’m trying to do. But you’re lucky. I was in bad trouble myself on Whirlygig once, over three hundred years ago. And I remember how I felt.” Wilmer gripped his hand. “Good luck, Peron. When you wake up again you’ll be over in S-space.”

In S-space. If I survive, there’ll be one more mystery to explain. Peron returned Wilmer’s grip.

“I’ll need help,” said Wilmer. He was back on open circuit. “We have to get Peron out of that suit as soon as the pressure will let us. And he’ll be unconscious. Elissa, will you organize the fastest way to do that?” Peron felt an overpowering and irrational urge to laugh. Wilmer, said a voice inside him, my odd and hairless friend, how you’ve changed. You were an old tardy-worm down on Pentecost, and now you’re transformed into a golden-winged butterfly of authority. Or do I mean a plant, a rare exotic form that only blooms when it’s off-planet? That question was suddenly important, but he knew he could not provide an answer.

Control had gone. He knew they were at the dome and ready to go inside it, but he could no longer see the door of the lock. Or the stars, or even the ground he stood upon. The scene before him was blinking out, bit by bit. It was like a great jigsaw puzzle, where every piece was black. All he could see was Wilmer, still holding his arm.

So. This is what it’s like to die. Not too bad, really. Not bad at all. The final piece of the puzzle was placed in position. Wilmer disappeared, and the whole world was dark.