“The fears unleashed by contact with a new life form are not understood. The most likely consequence of contact is absolute terror.”

The statements from his own report popped into his head. Why should he think of them now? It had been years since he had written his report.

“Under circumstances of extreme terror, people make decisions poorly.”

Yet Norman wasn’t afraid. Far from it. He was confident and strong. He had a plan, he was carrying it out. Why should he even think of that report? At the time, he’d agonized over it, thinking of each sentence… Why was it coming to mind now? It troubled him.

“Your attention, please. Sixteen minutes and counting.” Norman scanned the gauges before him. He was at nine hundred feet, rising swiftly. There was no turning back now. Why should he even think of turning back?

Why should it enter his mind?

As he rose silently through black water, he increasingly felt a kind of split inside himself, an almost schizophrenic internal division. Something was wrong, he sensed. There was something he hadn’t considered yet.

But what could he have overlooked? Nothing, he decided, because, unlike Beth and Harry, I am fully conscious; I am aware of everything that is happening inside me.

Except Norman didn’t really believe that. Complete awareness might be a philosophical goal, but it was not really attainable. Consciousness was like a pebble that rippled the surface of the unconscious. As consciousness widened, there was still more unconsciousness beyond. There was always more, just beyond reach. Even for a humanistic psychologist.

Stein, his old professor: “You always have your shadow.”

What was Norman’s shadow side doing now? What was happening in the unconscious, denied parts of his own brain? Nothing. Keep going up.

He shifted uneasily in the pilot’s chair. He wanted to go to the surface so badly, he felt such conviction…

I hate Beth. I hate Harry. I hate worrying about these people, caring for them. I don’t want to care any more. It’s not my responsibility. I want to save myself. I hate them. I hate them.

He was shocked. Shocked by his own thoughts, the vehemence of them.

I must go back, he thought. If I go back I will die.

But some other part of himself was growing stronger with each moment. What Beth had said was true: Norman had been the one who kept saying that they had to stay together, to work together. How could he abandon them now? He couldn’t. It was against everything he believed in, everything that was important and human.

He had to go back.

I am afraid to go back.

At last, he thought. There it is. Fear so strong he had denied its existence, fear that had caused him to rationalize abandoning the others.

He pressed the controls, halting his ascent. As he started back down, he saw that his hands were shaking.

0130 HOURS

The sub came to rest gently on the bottom beside the habitat. Norman stepped into the submarine airlock, flooded the chamber. Moments later, he climbed down the side and walked toward the habitat. The Tevac explosives’ cones with their blinking red lights looked oddly festive.

“Your attention, please. Fourteen minutes and counting.” He estimated the time he would need. One minute to get inside. Five, maybe six minutes to dress Beth and Harry in the suits. Another four minutes to reach the sub and get them aboard. Two or three minutes to make the ascent.

It was going to be close. He moved beneath the big support pylons, under the habitat.

“So you came back, Norman,” Beth said, over the intercom.

“Yes, Beth.”

“Thank God,” she said. She started to cry. He was beneath A Cyl, hearing her sobs over the intercom. He found the hatch cover, spun the wheel to open it. It was locked shut.

“Beth, open the hatch.”

She was crying over the intercom. She didn’t answer him.

“Beth, can you hear me? Open the hatch.”

Crying like a child, sobbing hysterically. “Norman,” she said. “Please help me. Please.”

“I’m trying to help you, Beth. Open the hatch.”

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean, you can’t?”

“It won’t do any good.”

“Beth,” he said. “Come on, now…”

“I can’t do it, Norman.”

“Of course you can. Open the hatch, Beth.”

“You shouldn’t have come back, Norman.”

There was no time for this now. “Beth, pull yourself together. Open the hatch.”

“No, Norman, I can’t.”

And she began crying again.

He tried all the hatches, one after another. B Cyl, locked. C Cyl, locked. D Cyl, locked.

“Your attention, please. Thirteen minutes and counting.” He was standing by E Cyl, which had been flooded in an earlier attack. He saw the gaping, jagged tear in the outer cylinder surface. The hole was large enough for him to climb through, but the edges were sharp, and if he tore his suit…

No, he decided. It was too risky. He moved beneath E Cyl. Was there a hatch?

He found a hatch, spun the wheel. It opened easily. He pushed the circular lid upward, heard it clang against the inner wall.

“Norman? Is that you?”

He hauled himself up, into E Cyl. He was panting from the exertion, on his hands and knees on the deck of E Cyl. He shut the hatch and locked it again, then took a moment to get his breath.

“Your attention, please. Twelve minutes and counting.”

Jesus, he thought. Already?

Something white drifted past his faceplate, startling him. He pulled back, realized it was a box of corn flakes. When he touched it, the cardboard disintegrated in his hands, the flakes like yellow snow.

He was in the kitchen. Beyond the stove he saw another hatch, leading to D Cyl. D Cyl was not flooded, which meant that he must somehow pressurize E Cyl.

He looked up, saw an overhead bulkhead hatch, leading to the living room with the gaping tear. He climbed up quickly. He needed to find gas, some kind of tanks. The living room was dark, except for the reflected light from the floodlights, which filtered in through the tear. Cushions and padding floated in the water. Something touched him and he spun and saw dark hair streaming around a face, and as the hair moved he saw part of the face was missing, torn away grotesquely.

Tina.

Norman shuddered, pushed her body away. It drifted off, moving upward.

“Your attention, please. Eleven minutes and counting.” It was all happening too fast, he thought. There was hardly enough time left. He needed to be inside the habitat now. No tanks in the living room. He climbed back down to the kitchen, shutting the hatch above. He looked at the stove, the ovens. He opened the oven door, and a burst of gas bubbled out. Air trapped in the oven.

But that couldn’t be right, he thought, because gas was still coming out. A trickle of bubbles continued to come from the open oven.

A steady trickle.

What had Barnes said about cooking under pressure? There was something unusual about it, he couldn’t remember exactly. Did they use gas? Yes, but they also needed more oxygen. That meant

He pulled the stove away from the wall, grunting with exertion, and then he found it. A squat bottle of propane, and two large blue tanks.

Oxygen tanks.

He twisted the Y-valves, his gloved fingers clumsy. Gas began to roar out. The bubbles rushed up to the ceiling, where the gas was trapped, the big air bubble that was forming.

He opened the second oxygen tank. The water level fell rapidly, to his waist, then his knees. Then it stopped. The tanks must be empty. No matter, the level was low enough.

“Your attention, please. Ten minutes and counting.” Norman opened the bulkhead door to D Cyl, and stepped through, into the habitat.

The light was dim. A strange green, slimy mold covered the walls.

On the couch, Harry lay unconscious, the intravenous line still in his arm. Norman pulled the needle out with a spurt of blood. He shook Harry, trying to rouse him.