Larry nodded at her, but said nothing.
12
The wind was getting even worse.
Dan tried to flatten himself into a niche between two of the big water-treatment tanks, but he felt the wind tearing at him, trying to pry him loose and bowl him along like the solar panels had been blown away. It was getting hard to stay on his feet. The noise was overpowering, and he could barely see a dozen meters ahead because of the dust and flying sand. He could hear the gritty stuff grinding against his suit; a yellowish film was building up on his helmet faceplate. He wiped at it awkwardly with a gloved hand, smearing it even worse than before.
Can’t slay here, he knew. Got to get into the shelter.
He edged away from the metal tanks far enough to poke his head around their curving flanks and look at the tent. A sudden gust of wind nearly knocked him over. The tent was flapping wildly in the roaring wind, snapping and tearing like a huge blanket. It cracked against one of the slim metal pipes leading from the squat round dome of the centrifuge and the pipe went clang! and snapped in half. Dan suddenly got a picture of what would happen if that tent-whip hit him.
It was getting difficult to move the arms of his suit. Muscles tired… or are the joints getting jammed with grit? Probably both.
Then he started wondering what would happen if his suit sprung a leak, if the sulfurous air ate through his plastic oxygen tubing, if the grit made the suit completely immovable, if…
Stop it! he commanded himself. Try to think. Think calmly. Are you safer here or should you try to get into the shelter?
The question was answered for him. A half-dozen spears of lightning flickered off in the distance, far enough to be still out over the sea, close enough so that the thunder exploded almost immediately with shattering noise.
Lightning! Dan remembered what he’d been told about the last storm. The lightning bolts loved the big high-standing metal equipment that stood there. Dozens of bolts had hit the refinery.
If I’m out here when the lightning starts striking…
He knew he had to get to the shelter.
Slowly, carefully, Dan hunkered down onto his knees and then flattened out on his belly. The wind-blown dust was even worse down at ground level, he could barely see an arm’s length before him. The wind tried to lift him up off the ground, sail him like a glider. He pressed himself into the ground as hard as he could.
He crawled. Centimeter by agonized centimeter, he crawled on all fours toward the tent. He was guided more by the flapping, whip-cracking sounds of the tent’s loose fabric than by vision. All he could see was flying sand and wind-flattened yellow grass.
It seemed to take hours. Dan knew it was only a few meters from where he had been standing to the edge of the tent, but it seemed more like lightyears now. A new blast of lightning, turned everything glare-white for an instant, and the thunder seemed to be trying to crack him open like an eggshell. Every muscle in his body ached and burned, and he was drenched with sweat.
Got to stop…rest. But something inside him said fiercely, Stop now and you’re dead. Keep going, dammit! Keep going!
He inched along. A lightning bolt struck metal somewhere close beside him with an unbelievable burst of light and a deafening explosion. Something hit Dan’s right leg and the suit seemed to go completely stiff there. He couldn’t move the leg at all.
Or is my own leg hurt? He didn’t feel any extra pain there, but he knew that shock sometimes cut off pain. And besides, every part of him already hurt so much.
His outstretched hand bumped into something. The flat, circular plastisteel foundation of the tent.
Dan raised his head and saw the tent’s fabric looming up, flapping wildly, right in front of him. Like a nightmare monster.
Rising up, up, filling all his visions with its rippling, snapping immensity. Then with a whip-crack it flattened out again, only to begin rising once more immediately.
Can’t go through that, Dan realized.
He fumbled at his belt for the suit’s tool kit. It was almost impossible to feel shapes with the gloves on, but at last he pulled out the little pistol-shaped laser that they used for cutting and welding.
Hope it’s charged up. Dan pressed the snub nose of the laser against the edge of the tent’s foundation and pulled on the trigger. The pistol didn’t make a sound or vibration, but after a moment or two Dan could see the plastic fabric of the tent glowing, tearing, separating from the foundation.
With an agonized screeching sound, the plastic ripped free of the foundation and went billowing into the wind, disappearing into the howling storm like a giant bird suddenly let loose.
Dan clung to the foundation’s edge for a long, weary moment, then pulled himself slowly over the lip. He dragged himself, using his arms and his one movable leg, groping for the hatch to the underground shelter Desks, chairs, viewscreens, even the heavy computer consoles had been blown over by the wind, bowled away like so much dust. Another bolt of lightning struck with shattering force, blinding and deafening Dan for several moments.
Then his hands found the hatch. He pulled himself up onto his elbows, nearly unconscious with pain and exhaustion. Eyes stinging and nearly blinded with sweat, he groped for the control switch. He found it and leaned on it heavily. It wouldn’t move. He forced his weight on the tiny switch as hard as he could. Nothing.
Jammed by the grit.
He raised a fist, taking all the strength he had, and pounded on the hatch itself. If Cranston’s down there…if he’s not dead… Even his thoughts were getting fuzzy now. Pound. Raise the fist and let it drop. Raise the fist and let it drop…
The hatch moved. It pushed against his inert arm. A straining, rasping sound and Dan could see the hatch lifting slowly. A gloved hand was pushing it open from the inside.
Everything seemed to go hazy, foggy, blood-red and then dead-black. Dan could feel his body moving—being moved?—and the noise of the wind’s evil howling dimmed, muffled. Somebody was talking to him, urgent words crackling in his earphones. Then the blackness swam up and surrounded him and pulled him downward into oblivion.
When he awoke, his helmet was off. Cranston was completely out of his suit, dressed only in blue coveralls. The little underground shelter seemed cool and snug and safe. The wind was a distant mumble somewhere outside. The shelter was bright and quiet. Its curving walls and ceiling seemed to gather around him protectively. Its bunk felt soft and comfortable.
Cranston was standing by the cooking unit.
“Do you think you could eat something?” he asked, looking worriedly at Dan.
Dan realized he was sitting on one of the bunks, slouched against the curving wall of the shelter.
“Yeh. …sure.” Every muscle ached. His head throbbed horribly. His mouth felt dry and caked with dust.
Glancing down at his legs, he saw that Cranston had taken off the bottom half of his suit, as well as his helmet.
“There was a bad dent on the left leg of the suit,” the computerman said. “I was worried that your own leg might’ve been hurt. It’s bruised pretty bad, but I don’t think it’s anything worse than that.”
“When …” Dan tried to lick his lips, but his tongue was dry. He croaked, “When did you…come into the shelter?”