Isaac Asimov (19 page)

And even as he thought so, he felt himself sucked wildly
upward, the lifeline following and snaking entirely free of the crevice which, in half a moment, was lost to sight.

The snorkel had been pulled out of the alveolar crevice and Duval was snaking it back to the ship.

Cora said anxiously, “Where’s Grant?”

“He’s up there,” said Michaels, peering.

“Why doesn’t he come down?”

“He will. He will. It takes some negotiating, I imagine.” He peered upward again. “Benes is exhaling. Once that’s done, he’ll have no trouble.”

“Shouldn’t we grab hold of his lifeline and pull him in?”

Michaels threw out an arm and forestalled her. “If you do that and yank just as an inhalation starts, forcing him downward, you may hurt him. He’ll tell us what to do if he needs help.”

Restlessly, Cora watched and then broke away toward the lifeline. “No,” she said, “I want to …”

And at that moment, the lifeline twitched and snaked upward, its end flashing past, and out through the opening.

Cora screamed, and kicked herself desperately toward the opening.

Michaels pursued. “You can’t do anything,” he panted. “Don’t be foolish.”

“But we can’t leave him in there. What will happen to him?”

“We’ll hear from him by his radio.”

“It may be broken.”

“Why should it be?”

Duval joined them. He said, chokingly, “It came loose as I watched. I couldn’t believe it.”

All three gazed upward helplessly.

Michaels called, tentatively, “Grant! Grant! Do you receive me?”

Grant went tumbling and twisting upward. His thoughts were as jumbled as his line of flight.

I won’t get back, was the dominant thought. I won’t get back. Even if I stay in radio contact, I can’t come in on the beam.

Or could he?

“Michaels,” he called. “Duval.”

There was nothing at first, then a faint crackling noise in his ears; and a distorted squawk that might have been “Grant!”

He tried again, “Michaels! Do you hear me? Do you hear me?”

Again the squawking. He could not make out anything.

Somewhere within a tense mind there came a calm thought, as though his intellect had found time to make a serene note. Although miniaturized light waves were more penetrating than the ordinary kind, miniaturized radio waves seemed less penetrating.

Very little was known about the miniaturized state, apparently. It was the misfortune of the
Proteus
and her crew to be pioneers into a realm that was literally unknown; surely a fantastic voyage if ever there was one.

And within that voyage, Grant was now on a fantastic subvoyage of his own; blown through what seemed miles of space within a microscopic air chamber in the lung of a dying man.

His motion was slowing. He had reached the top of the alveolus and had moved into the tubular stalk from which it was suspended. The far-off light of the
Proteus
was dim indeed. Could he follow the light, then? Could he try to move in whatever direction it seemed stronger?

He touched the wall of the tubular stalk and stuck there, like a fly on flypaper. And with no more sense than the fly, at first, he wriggled.

Both legs and an arm were stuck to the wall, in no time. He paused and forced himself to think. Exhalation was complete but inhalation would be beginning. The air current would be forcing him downward. Wait for it!

He felt the wind begin and heard the rushing noise. Slowly, he pulled his clinging arm loose and bent his body out into the wind. It pushed him downward and his legs came loose, too.

He was falling now, plummeting downward from a height which, on his miniaturized scale, was mountainous. From the unminiaturized point of view, he knew he must be drifting downward in feathery fashion, but as it was, what he experienced was a plummet. It was a smooth drop, non-accelerated, for the large molecules of air (almost large enough to see, Michaels had said) had to be pushed to one
side as he fell and that took the energy that would otherwise have gone into acceleration.

A bacterium, no larger than he, could fall this distance safely, but he, the miniaturized human, was made up of fifty trillion miniaturized cells and that complexity made him fragile enough, perhaps, to smash apart into miniaturized dust.

Automatically, as he thought that, he threw up his hands in self-defense when the alveolar wall came whirling close. He felt the glancing contact; the wall gave soggily and he bounced off after clinging for a moment. His speed of fall had actually slowed.

Down again. Somewhere below, a speck of light, a bare pinpoint had winked on as he watched. He kept his eye fixed on that with a wild hope.

Still down. He kicked his feet wildly to avoid an outcropping of dust boulders; narrowly missed and struck a spongy area again. Again falling. He thrashed wildly in an attempt to move toward the pinpoint of light as he fell and it seemed to him he might have succeeded somewhat. He wasn’t sure.

He came rolling down the lower slope of the alveolar surface at length. He flung his lifeline around an outcropping and held on just barely.

The pinpoint of light had become a small glare, some fifty feet away, he judged. That
must
be the crevice and close though it was, he couldn’t possibly have found it without the guidance of the light.

He waited for the inhalation to cease. In the short interval of time before exhalation, he had to make it there.

Before inhalation had come to a complete halt, he was slipping and scrambling across the space between. The alveolar membrane stretched in the final moment of inhalation and then, hovering at that point for a couple of seconds, began to lose its tension as the first instants of gathering exhalation began.

Grant threw himself down the crevice which was ablaze with light. He kicked at the interface which rebounded in rubbery fashion. A knife slit through; a hand appeared and seized his ankle in a firm grip. He felt the pull downward just as the upward draft was beginning to make itself felt about his ears.

Down he went with other hands adding to the grip on his legs and he was back in the capillary. Grant breathed in
long, shuddering gasps. Finally, he said, “Thanks! I followed the light! Couldn’t have made it otherwise.”

Michaels said, “Couldn’t reach you by radio.”

Cora was smiling at him. “It was Dr. Duval’s idea. He had the
Proteus
move up to the opening and shine its headlight directly into it. And he made the opening bigger, too.”

Michaels said, “Let’s get back in the ship. We’ve lost just about all the time we can afford to lose.”

Reid cried out, “A message is coming through, Al.”

“From the
Proteus?
” Carter ran to the window.

“Well, not from your wife.”

Carter waved his hand impatiently. “Later. Later. Save all the jokes and we’ll go over them one by one in a big heap. Okay?”

The word came through: “Sir,
Proteus
reports DANGEROUS AIR LOSS. REFUELING OPERATION CARRIED THROUGH SUCCESSFULLY.”

“Refueling?” cried Carter.

Reid said, frowning, “I suppose they mean the lungs. They’re at the lungs, after all, and that means cubic miles of air on their scale. But …”

“But what?”

“They can’t use that air. It’s unminiaturized.”

Carter looked at the colonel in exasperation. He barked into the transmitter. “Repeat the last sentence of the message.”

“REFUELING OPERATION CARRIED THROUGH SUCCESSFULLY.”

“Is that last word ‘successfully?’ ”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get in touch with them and confirm.”

He said to Reid, “If they say ‘successfully,’ I suppose they handled it.”

“The
Proteus
has a miniaturizer on board.”

“Then that’s how they did it. We’ll get an explanation afterward.”

The voice came up from communications. “Message confirmed, sir.”

“Are they moving?” asked Carter, making another connection.

A short pause and then, “Yes, sir. They’re moving through the pleural lining.”

Reid nodded his head. He looked up at the Time Recorder, which read 37, and said, “The pleural lining is a
double membrane surrounding the lungs. They must be moving in the space between; a clear road, an expressway really, right to the neck.”

“And they’ll be where they started half an hour ago,” grated Carter. “Then what?”

“They can back into a capillary and find their way to the carotid artery again, which is time-consuming; or they may by-pass the arterial system by taking to the lymphatics, which involves other problems. —Michaels is the pilot; I suppose he’ll know what to do.”

“Can you advise him? For God’s sake, don’t rest on protocol.”

Reid shook his head. “I’m not sure which course is wisest, and he’s on the scene. He’ll be a better judge as to how well the ship can withstand another arterial battering. We’ve got to leave it to them, general.”

“I wish I knew what to do,” said Carter. “By the Lord, I’d take the responsibility, if I knew enough to do so with a reasonable chance of success.”

“But that’s exactly how I feel,” said Reid, “and why I’m declining the responsibility.”

Michaels was looking over the charts. “All right, Owens, this wasn’t the place I was heading for, but it will do. We’re here and we’ve made an opening. Head for the crevice.”

“Into the lungs?” said Owens, in outrage.

“No, no.” Michaels bounded from his seat in impatience and climbed the stairs so that his head poked into the bubble. “We’ll get into the pleural lining. Get the ship going and I’ll guide you.”

Cora knelt at Grant’s chair. “How did you manage?”

Grant said, “Barely. I’ve been scared more times than I can count—I’m a very scary person—but this time I nearly set a record for fright-intensity.”

“Why do you always make yourself out to be such a coward? After all, your job …”

“Because I’m an agent? Most of it is pretty routine, pretty safe, pretty dull; and I try to keep it that way. When I can’t avoid frightening situations, I have to endure them for the sake of what I believe I’m doing. I’m sufficiently brainwashed, you know, to think it the patriotic thing—in a way.”

“In a way?”

“In my way. It’s not just this country or that, after all. We’re long past the stage where there can be a meaningful division of humanity. I honestly believe our policies are intended to uphold the peace and I want to be part, however small, of that upholding. I didn’t volunteer for this mission, but now that I’m here …” He shrugged.

Cora said, “You sound as though you’re embarrassed to be talking about peace and patriotism.”

Grant said, “I suppose I am. The rest of you are driven by specific motivation, not by vague words. Owens is testing his ship; Michaels is piloting a course across a human body; Duval is admiring God’s handiwork; and you …”

“Yes?”

Grant said softly, “You are admiring Duval.”

Cora flushed. “He’s worth admiration, he really is. You know, after he suggested we shine the ship’s headlights into the crevice so as to give you something to shoot for, he did nothing further. He wouldn’t say a word to you on your return. It’s his way. He’ll save someone’s life, then be casually rude to him and what will be remembered will be his rudeness and not his life-saving. But his manner doesn’t alter what he is.”

“No. That’s true; though it may mask it.”

“And your manner doesn’t affect what you are. You affect a brittle, adolescent humor in order to mask a deep involvement in humanity.”

It was Grant’s turn to redden. “You make me sound an uncommon jackass.”

“To yourself perhaps. In any case, you’re not a coward. But now I’ve got to get to work on the laser.” She cast a quick glance at Michaels, who was returning to his seat.

“The laser? Good Lord, I’d forgotten. Well, then, do your best to see it’s not crucially damaged, will you?”

The animation that had brightened her through the previous conversation died away. “Oh, if I only could.”

She moved to the rear. Michaels’ eyes followed her. “What about the laser?” he said.

Grant shook his head. “She’s going to check now.”

Michaels seemed to hesitate before his next remark. He shook his head slightly. Grant watched him but said nothing.

Michaels settled himself into his seat and said at last, “What do you think of our present situation?”

Grant, until now absorbed in Cora, looked up at the
windows. They seemed to be moving between two parallel walls that almost touched the
Proteus
on either side; gleaming yellow and constructed of parallel fibers, like huge tree trunks bound side by side.

The fluid about them was clear, free of cells and objects, almost free of debris. It seemed to be in dead calm and the
Proteus
churned through it at an even, rapid clip with only the muffled Brownian motion to interject any unevenness into its progress.

“The Brownian motion,” said Grant, “is rougher now.”

“The fluid here is less viscous than the blood plasma so the motion is less damped out. We won’t be here long, however.”