The fin slipped away to the stern; the submarine again turned. Directly ahead, more lights, arranged in vertical rows. Norman saw a single cylinder of yellow-painted steel, and bright portholes. Next to it was a low metal dome.
“That’s DH-7, the divers’ habitat, to port,” the pilot said. “It’s pretty utilitarian. You guys are in DH-8, which is much nicer, believe me.”
He turned starboard, and after a momentary blackness, they saw another set of lights. Coming closer, Norman counted five different cylinders, some vertical, some horizontal, interconnected in a complex way.
“There you are. DH-8, your home away from home,” the pilot said. “Give me a minute to dock.”
Metal clanged against metal; there was a sharp jolt, and then the motors cut off. Silence. Hissing air. The pilot scrambled to open the hatch, and surprisingly cold air washed down on them.
“Airlock’s open, gentlemen,” he said, stepping aside. Norman looked up through the lock. He saw banks of red lights above. He climbed up through the submarine, and into a round steel cylinder approximately eight feet in diameter. On all sides there were handholds; a narrow metal bench; the glowing heat lamps overhead, though they didn’t seem to do much good.
Ted climbed up and sat on the bench opposite him. They were so close their knees touched. Below their feet, the pilot closed the hatch. They watched the wheel spin. They heard a clank as the submarine disengaged, then the whirr of motors as it moved away.
Then nothing.
“What happens now?” Norman said.
“They pressurize us,” Ted said. “Switch us over to exotic-gas atmosphere. We can’t breathe air down here.”
“Why not?” Norman said. Now that he was down here, staring at the cold steel walls of the cylinder, he wished he had stayed awake for the briefing.
“Because,” Ted said, “the atmosphere of the Earth is deadly. You don’t realize it, but oxygen is a corrosive gas. It’s in the same chemical family as chlorine and fluorine, and hydrofluoric acid is the most corrosive acid known. The same quality of oxygen that makes a half-eaten apple turn brown, or makes iron rust, is incredibly destructive to the human body if exposed to too much of it. Oxygen under pressure is toxic-with a vengeance. So we cut down the amount of oxygen you breathe. You breathe twenty-one percent oxygen at the surface. Down here, you breathe two percent oxygen. But you won’t notice any difference-”
A voice over a loudspeaker said, “We’re starting to pressurize you now.”
“Who’s that?” Norman said.
“Barnes,” the voice said. But it didn’t sound like Barnes. It sounded gritty and artificial.
“It must be the talker,” Ted said, and then laughed. His voice was noticeably higher-pitched. “It’s the helium, Norman. They’re pressurizing us with helium.”
“You sound like Donald Duck,” Norman said, and he laughed, too. His own voice sounded squeaky, like a cartoon character’s.
“Speak for yourself, Mickey,” Ted squeaked.
“I taut I taw a puddy tat,” Norman said. They were both laughing, hearing their voices.
“Knock it off, you guys,” Barnes said over the intercom. “This is serious.”
“Yes, sir, Captain,” Ted said, but by now his voice was so high-pitched it was almost unintelligible, and they fell into laughter again, their tinny voices like those of schoolgirls reverberating inside the steel cylinder.
Helium made their voices high and squeaky. But it also had other effects.
“Getting chilled, boys?” Barnes said.
They were indeed getting colder. He saw Ted shivering, felt goosebumps on his own legs. It felt as if a wind were blowing across their bodies-except there wasn’t any wind. The lightness of the helium increased evaporation, made them cold.
Across the cylinder, Ted said something, but Norman couldn’t understand Ted at all any more; his voice was too high-pitched to be comprehensible. It was just a thin squeal.
“Sounds like a couple of rats in there now,” Barnes said, with satisfaction.
Ted rolled his eyes toward the loudspeaker and squeaked something.
“If you want to talk, get a talker,” Barnes said. “You’ll find them in the locker under the seat.”
Norman found a metal locker, clicked it open. The metal squealed loudly, like chalk on a blackboard. All the sounds in the chamber were high-pitched. Inside the locker he saw two black plastic pads with neck straps.
“Just slip them over your neck. Put the pad at the base of your throat.”
“Okay,” Ted said, and then blinked in surprise. His voice sounded slightly rough, but otherwise normal.
“These things must change the vocal-cord frequencies,” Norman said.
“Why don’t you guys pay attention to briefings?” Barnes said. “That’s exactly what they do. You’ll have to wear a talker all the time you’re down here. At least, if you want anybody to understand you. Still cold?”
“Yes,” Ted said.
“Well, hang on, you’re almost fully pressurized now.” Then there was another hiss, and a side door slid open. Barnes stood there, with light jackets over his arm. “Welcome to DH-8,” he said.
DH-8
“You’re the last to arrive,” Barnes said. “We just have time for a quick tour before we open the spacecraft.”
“You’re ready to open it now?” Ted asked. “Wonderful. I’ve just been talking about this with Norman. This is such a great moment, our first contact with alien life, we ought to prepare a little speech for when we open it up.”
“There’ll be time to consider that,” Barnes said, with an odd glance at Ted. “I’ll show you the habitat first. This way.” He explained that the DH-8 habitat consisted of five large cylinders, designated A to E. “Cyl A is the airlock, where we are now.” He led them into an adjacent changing room. Heavy cloth suits hung limply on the wall, alongside yellow sculpted helmets of the sort Norman had seen the divers wearing. The helmets had a futuristic look. Norman tapped one with his knuckles. It was plastic, and surprisingly light. He saw “JOHNSON” stenciled above one faceplate.
“We going to wear these?” Norman asked.
“That’s correct,” Barnes said.
“Then we’ll be going outside?” Norman said, feeling a twinge of alarm.
“Eventually, yes. Don’t worry about it now. Still cold?”
They were; Barnes had them change into tight-fitting jumpsuits of clinging blue polyester. Ted frowned. “Don’t you think these look a little silly?”
“They may not be the height of fashion,” Barnes said, “but they prevent heat loss from helium.”
“The color is unflattering,” Ted said.
“Screw the color,” Barnes said. He handed them light-weight jackets. Norman felt something heavy in one pocket, and pulled out a battery pack.
“The jackets are wired and electrically heated,” Barnes said. “Like an electric blanket, which is what you’ll use for sleeping. Follow me.”
They went on to Cyl B, which housed power and life-support systems. At first glance, it looked like a large boiler room, all multicolored pipes and utilitarian fittings. “This is where we generate all of our heat, power, and air,” Barnes said. He pointed out the features: “Closed-cycle IC generator, 240/110. Hydrogen-and-oxygen-driven fuel cells. LSS monitors. Liquid processor, runs on silver-zinc batteries. And that’s Chief Petty Officer Fletcher. Teeny Fletcher.” Norman saw a big-boned figure, working back among the pipes with a heavy wrench. The figure turned; Alice Fletcher gave them a grin, waved a greasy hand.
“She seems to know what she’s doing,” Ted said, approvingly.
“She does,” Barnes said. “But all the major support systems are redundant. Fletcher is just our final redundancy. Actually, you’ll find the entire habitat is self-regulating.”
He clipped heavy badges onto the jumpsuits. “Wear these at all times, even though they’re just a precaution: the alarms trigger automatically if life-support conditions go below optimum. But that won’t happen. There are sensors in each room of the habitat. You’ll get used to the fact that the environment continually adjusts to your presence. Lights will go on and off, heat lamps will turn on and off, and air vents will hiss to keep track of things. It’s all automatic, don’t sweat it. Every single major system is redundant. We can lose power, we can lose air, we can lose water entirely, and we will be fine for a hundred and thirty hours.”