Nerves

Chapter 5

Mal Jorgenson cursed as he moved about in the crushing weight of the big Tomlin suit. The bulk of its multitude of shields and the complicated nonsense of its built-in air system would have killed a lesser man in minutes, so they had to make him the guinea pig to test it. To make matters worse, it added to his stature, until even the ratholes he’d learned to navigate were too small for him. He cursed again, and swore at the pigmy race that had spawned him, with their puny minds even smaller than the silly things they called bodies.

He wedged himself into the upper test pit of Number Three, trying to get his shoulders in far enough to hook on his gauge. There’d been no time to install a proper bank of test instruments; they could wait weeks to try his process— and then they expected him to do it all overnight!

Finally, by resorting to pure mathematics, he found a location, and ran off a test. The results agreed with what he’d expected, of course. There might be some satisfaction in all this yet— if Palmer stuck around long enough to eat crow for the doubts that had been on his face. There were a few things Jorgenson had been saving to tell him!

He caught his shoulder edging out, and swore hotly, not bothering to turn down the radio on his suit. Damn it, Palmer had no business insisting that everyone wear suits on this job. They only made the work more complicated, and showed the men that the manager didn’t trust him. It was standard operating procedure on an initial run, as the manager had said. But this was a special job, done on the worst possible short notice. Some concessions might have been made!

He climbed down, his anger bearing him up. He had reason to be angry in a world where nothing fitted, where travel was an ordeal, and where even the clothes he wore had to be built to order at a price that sapped his income and left him with no hope for his future. And the women….

He almost spat, before he remembered the visor in front of his face.

Briggs was standing with a bunch of the men by the south converter safety chamber. The big hulk of the converter was built inside an even bigger housing, made of thick concrete, and the chambers had been designed along the outer housing wall for use in accidents. They were never meant as meeting halls, yet the fools were all huddled about the chambers, as if they had no faith in him.

“Get those runts of yours out on the job, Briggs,” he ordered. “I don’t want to see them clumped up here again. Damn it, we’re running a new job. If I have to change the setting, or if those gauges start to go up, I want to see men where they can move. You’ve worked with me before. You know what I want.”

“You want a knife in the guts some dark night,” Briggs said, his voice quiet and cold. “You run your blasted conversion and I’ll run the men. Palmer told me to keep them back when I could.”

There was nothing Jorgenson could do about it. If he knocked the fool cold for his insolence, the whole pigmy group would be down on him for picking on a smaller man. He’d had trouble enough before— though never this much. If Palmer would back him up… But the manager wouldn’t. Even Kellar had been hell to work with and soft-headed about the men.

He clumped away, heading through the slow-moving, massive door through the housing wall and toward Number Four. It was overdue for a check, as a result of the delay in handling the instruments where there was no room to turn. A good reader might have helped, but he’d never found one he could trust. He stood fuming while the motors in the second converter slowly pushed the entrance wide enough for him to pass through.

Inside Number Four, Grissom was at least some improvement over Briggs. The foreman had kicked, but now he had his men spaced out where they belonged. They looked scared, but it was good for them. A little adrenalin in their blood streams might put some life into them.

“Get that feeder dressed down,” he told Grissom. It had been badly hooked up, in spite of the bonus he’d offered that afternoon and had come partly loose so that it thumped with the changes in pressure going on inside the converter. But as long as the designers insisted on putting housings around the converters— to hold in the effects of accidents, they claimed— instead of leaving the machinery outside where it could be reached, sloppy work was to be expected.

He climbed laboriously up to the testing pit and went through the whole operation again, figuring out a way to get his arms far enough in to read his gauge. He stared at it automatically and then his eyes focused on it sharply.

The needle wasn’t steady.

It was wobbling from side to side, dancing erratically. Its periodic dip and rise reminded him of something else. With a snap, his mind dug out the memory and examined it.

The time was the same as that of the feeder that was loose.

The pressures inside were varying, but he’d expected that. It still should have no effect on the other readings. And yet the fluctuation was obvious.

He flipped the pages of his notes in his head, running over them as quickly as if they had been on printed sheets. There was nothing there to predict such behavior. It would apply only to an entirely different reaction.

He balanced the new equations that would fit, adjusting them to the facts. It was pressure work— something that would leave his head splitting for hours. He hated it, and he had never quite learned to make it completely trustworthy. But this time something in the back of his mind was shrieking the truth of the new equations.

Jenkins! The damned impertinent kid had pointed to just such an equation! He’d had the nerve to suggest that there was a second possibility Jorgenson had overlooked. And now even the fates were conspiring with the pigmies to prove that he was right and the man who had invented the whole process was wrong!

He screamed through his helmet, calling the attention of the men below him. There was still time, if they worked it right. It was close, but they could make it.

Grissom stood staring up, like a cowed rabbit. The men watched his gestures with no sign of understanding.

“Get moving!” Jorgenson yelled at them, forcing his helmet amplifier to the limit, draining the batteries savagely. “Pull the main ballast magnets back— all the way back. And give me more current through the primary inductances! Damn you, move! Do you want this whole thing to blow up in your faces? You’re going to be dealing with Isotope R in thirty seconds!”

Grissom moved then— the wrong way.

With a furious shout from his helmet diaphragm, he dived for the north converter chamber. For a split second, the others hesitated. Then they dropped what they were doing and joined him in the mad race. It was too late to save anything after that.

Jorgenson saw the door of the safety chamber swinging shut. He estimated it, and knew that they’d have it closed in plenty of time for safety. He also knew he could make it himself before it closed, even in the pressing weight of the heavy suit. He told his legs to jump for it.

And they responded, but not as he had intended! They carried him away from the inner wall, to land at a sickening, jarring run, heading around the converter toward the other men. He saw some of them staring, probably unable to make out his words before, but scared because they had seen others in motion.

“Get into the chamber!” he yelled. Under maximum drain, the amplifier was already failing as the batteries went dead. “Into the chamber!”

They were like helpless sheep as they realized what he was saying. The spineless fools couldn’t even save themselves. They had to wait for a better man to sacrifice himself.

He saw them heading for the chamber, and he knew it was almost too late. The anger in him was boiling now, surging through his veins, sending out adrenalin until he no longer felt the weight of the suit. He caught one of the laggards and literally tossed him the ten feet into the safety chamber. But there was no time to save all of them. They were in the way of his own progress.

And if one of them got part way through the door as it was closing, nobody would have a chance; the door had to seal tightly, and it couldn’t do that with a body stuck in it. There was barely enough space now for him to make it. If he jumped, kicking back at the two who were threatening to jam the door, he might be able to get in.

But he didn’t jump. He swung his big arms down, scooping one of the wretches into the chamber. There was no chance for the other. And there was no hope for life out here in any ordinary suit, even for minutes. The man was clawing at the big door, now too far shut for anyone to enter, trying to slip his arm inside.

All the hate that had filled him for years coursed through Jorgenson. He brought his fist down, twisting the helmet of the man into a pulped ribbon of metal. The arm continued the motion, and the man’s body skidded out of the path of the slow-closing door, leaving it free.

The fools inside were screaming and pointing, but he paid no heed to them. He knew the exact second now, as he had known it nearly all his life— the exact fraction of time that had elapsed. It was all that was left of his rational thought.

Right on schedule, he heard the first crack above him like a blow that seemed to torture his eardrums, even through the heavy armor. But he didn’t stop to look. The door was finally closing. He put his shoulder to it, bracing his feet and lunged. It gave a trifle more, speeding up under the combined force of the motor and his muscles. And at last some of the men had seen a trace of reason and were pulling on it, adding their puny strength to his.

The converter broke apart, spilling its contents outward! He saw it flying by him, spitting through the crack in the door. The impact forced him from his position, knocking him sideways. The glare of it made the ending of the lights unimportant, and then the magma was covering his face plate until he couldn’t see. He groped his way along the floor, fighting the pressure, until he could feel the door. He found another purchase and began shoving again, trying to will the thing closed. And finally, the crack vanished. He could do no more. Either the idiots inside would live or they’d die, but it was none of his responsibility now.

He relaxed then, surprised by the roaring and hissing going on. He felt something sting near one of the joints of his armor. The stuff was giving off tiny explosions, apparently with enough force to drive through all his armor!

He fought to his feet, ignoring the agony signals from his nerves and refusing to heed the twitching of his muscles. There was only the rage in him now, driving him on. He knew he was going to die, and no longer cared. But this was his process, and he was its master. It would have no victory over him!

Buffeted and beaten, with hell raging all around him and sometimes almost over him, he fought his way ahead, building a complete picture of the converter chamber and everything in it in his mind. There were the tools that had been dropped and photographed by his eyes. There was the corpse of the man he had killed for no better reason than to save others who didn’t deserve to live. And then he had it. There was the big lead box that had been brought in to hold the first testing of the results, until it could be certified.

His head ached savagely as he strained his mind to its utmost limit, driving it to handle more factors at once and build a more completely four-dimensional picture of the surroundings than he had ever tried before. He had to picture every movement of his own body, then extend that to the currents and pulses swirling around him, and retranslate that into the motion of the box. It couldn’t have moved far, but in the few seconds of time his personal energy would last, he couldn’t go hunting for it.

Then the picture solidified. He could see himself and the box in his mind, and even see the side on which the cover was. He moved toward it, and his fingers groped out and located it.

But at that moment, as during his whole life, the fates tricked him. He had located the box, but the lid was at an angle different from his picture. He cursed and screamed to himself in helpless frustration as he realized that the maximum power of his mind had built an imperfect image.

His fingers were moving along the box like little animals with minds of their own, testing it with thumps that carried back messages to his brain. Now he pulled the lid up, grateful that it was on top and the box would need no turning. With the last bit of energy, he let himself inside, solving the problem of the best position to take automatically as he did so. Then he dropped the lid back, trying to force it to a snug fit. He felt the box move under the still active forces of the new matter outside, but he could no longer care.

His mind blanked out.

He came to in hell, with the air hot and thick in his suit, and the sweat trickling out of him, though his body felt dried to the bones. There was a faint surge to the box in which he lay, as if one end were propped up and the other rocking on something.

But the shock that washed through him didn’t come from the realization of where he was or what must happen to him. The twitching of his muscles and the certain death that must face him meant very little.

The overwhelming fact was that he’d been insane for years! He turned that over in his thoughts, grappling with it — and accepting it. He’d been going insane by the time he reached adolescence. He had been wholly so before he graduated from college. He had lived in an impossible world where only absolute perfection counted, and where he refused to accept perfection as possible, even to himself! He had built his hate against the impossible into a constant churning force that whipped every tissue of him during all his life.

He’d been berserk! And yet, somehow it had been a cold, hard fury, capable of dissimilating when necessary. He’d kept the fury inside, away from the men over him, and usually within limits that men below him could at least tolerate. There had never been equals. He had reserved the real savagery of his berserk mind for himself.

And now his fury was burned out, unable to stand the gross overload of the last few seconds out there and the fact of the death he had to face. His mind felt empty, yet clearer than it had ever been. The trick of complete visual recall was still there. He could see every page he had ever read. And the ability to construct a full new picture mentally was sharper than before. He had built his life on those tricks — and they had driven him mad when he had learned that their discovery could only result in rejection or petty schemes for exploitation. Now they were only means to an end — not an end in themselves. They were talents that could help him think, not thoughts themselves.

It hurt to be only a man, rather than an angry, crippled god in chains. But he accepted it.

He turned his thoughts to his own situation again, and a faint feeling of fear touched him. He forced it away, as he was forcing away all the pain and anguish that tried to drum into his head. He was in the box, still above the stuff that must be bubbling out there, protected by the strong walls that were layered with lead. So long as he remained above the stuff, where it could not get into the box, he was somewhat safe. He could live until his air ran out, or the sweat drained his body too dry, or the heat finally overcame him. It wouldn’t be long.

He wondered about the men. He hadn’t known them and could feel no sympathy for them. But he was curious to know whether his work during the last few impossible seconds had done what he must have been trying. Mad or not, he had attempted to save them. In doing that, he had destroyed the madness in himself but left himself no chance to test his sanity.

He felt the box slipping and held his breath. But there was no use in that. With its mass, the faint difference any movement of his would make couldn’t count.

Isotope R, he thought. It was the answer — that or a mixture containing a high percentage of it. He could have forced his mind through the torturous process of determining the formula exactly, but he didn’t care that much. He wondered what would happen if it was Isotope R — and the answer that came to him sent him screaming through his mind for denial, and finding none.

It had to be Isotope R out there. And if it was, it wouldn’t matter whether he died now, was rescued by a miracle, or lived until the inevitable moment when the substance went through its chain of breakdown and came to its end.

Then he revised that. It would matter if a miracle could save him in time. Given time, given consciousness his mind could complete its search and find the answer — the answer that would end the menace of Isotope R.

But no man out there would find that answer in time. It would have to come from his brain — and his brain would never stand the forces outside that would come rushing in when the box sank.

Already, the box was tipping. It seemed to slip, and to turn. Something gave under it, held, and then gave again. He waited in curiosity, trying to estimate how long it would take. In a few more seconds, he had the pattern worked out. He was almost happy when the box finally slipped exactly as he had expected. It sank, and he was dimly aware that magma was oozing in through the cracks around the lid, but too uninterested to open his eyes on the chance that it would be bright enough to see.

He blackened one corner of his mind, then another. Finally, there was only a tiny spark left, and then he won completely as it flickered out, leaving him unconscious.