Part 32 (1/2)

White light blinded him. He shook his head and tried to keep his stomach from acting up. A voice asked, ”Were you s.h.i.+elded from those nuclear blasts?”

”No,” he said past a constricted throat. ”Not from the last. We got some prompt radiation. I don't know how much.”

”When was that? The exact time?”

Rip tried to remember. He felt horrible. ”It was twenty-three-oh-five.”

”Bad,” the voice said. ”He must have taken enough roentgens of gamma and neutrons to reach or exceed the median-lethal dose.”

Rip found his voice again. ”Santos,” he said urgently. ”On the asteroid.

He got it, too. The rest were s.h.i.+elded. Get him. Quick!”

MacFife snapped orders. The ball-bat would have Santos in the s.h.i.+p within minutes. Being sick in a s.p.a.ce suit was about the most unpleasant thing that could happen to anyone.

A hypospray tingled against Rip's arm. The drug penetrated, caught a quick lift to all parts of his body through his bloodstream. Consciousness slid away.

CHAPTER NINETEEN - s.p.a.cEFALL

Rip was never more eloquent. He argued, he begged, and he wheedled.

The _Aquila's_ chief physician listened with polite interest, but he shook his head. ”Lieutenant, you simply are not aware of the close call you've had. Another two hours without treatment and we might not have been able to save you.”

”I appreciate that,” Rip a.s.sured him. ”But I'm fine now, sir.”

”You are not fine. You are anything but fine. We've loaded you with antibiotics and blood cell regenerator, and we've given you a total transfusion. You feel fine, but you're not.”

The doctor looked at Rip's red hair. ”That's a fine thatch of hair you have. In a week or two it will be gone and you'll have no more hair than an egg. A well person doesn't lose hair.”

The s.h.i.+p's radiation safety officer had put both Rip's and Santos's dosimeters into his measuring equipment. They had taken over a hundred roentgens of hard radiation above the tolerance limit. This was the result of being caught uns.h.i.+elded when the last nuclear charge went off.

”Sir,” Rip pleaded, ”you can load us with suppressives. It's only a few days more before we reach Terra. You can keep us going until then. We'll both turn in for full treatment as soon as we get to the s.p.a.ce platform.

But we have to finish the job, can't you see that, sir?”

The doctor shook his head. ”You're a fool, even for a Planeteer. Before you get over this you'll be sicker than you've ever been. You have a month in bed waiting for you. If I let you go back to the asteroid, I'll only be delaying the time when you start full treatment.”

”But the delay won't hurt if you inject us with suppressives, will it?”

Rip asked quickly. ”Don't they keep the sickness checked?”

”Yes, for a maximum of about ten days. Then they no longer have sufficient effect and you come down with it.”

”But it won't take ten days,” Rip pointed out. ”It will only take a couple, and it won't hurt us.”

MacFife had arrived to hear the last exchange. He nodded sympathetically.

”Doctor, I can appreciate how the lad feels. He started something and he wants to finish it. If y'can let him, safely, I think ye should.”

The doctor shrugged. ”I can let him. There's a nine to one chance it will do him no harm. But the one chance is what I don't like.”