that if he did, he would arrive in a severe, not to say
fatal, state of anoxic anoxemia. For the air that Hansard breathed here
in the city was not the air of the Real World, but the dematerialized
air created by the transmitters and kept from dispersing by the dome
above the city. Outside the dome, on the open highway or in another city,
his store of dematerialized oxygen would be quickly dissipated. The dome
kept him alive -- but it also kept him a prisoner.
Yet there had to be food of some sort coming through the transmitters,
for the men of Camp Jackson were surely sustained by more than air and
water. And since the greatest aid to solving a problem is knowing that
it can be solved, Hansard need not and did not panic.
Whatever food they were eating had to be going through the Camp Jackson
transmitter; and as only personnel went through the transmitters it must
be that the men were bringing food with them to Mars, probably concealed
in their duffels. Though this was against regulations, it was commonplace
practice, since the Command Post lacked a PX. But how could they know
to bring enough ?
Unless there was a way, which Hansard had yet to discover, of communicating
with the inhabitants of the Real World. . . .
Reluctant to return to Camp Jackson during the day, Hansard thought of
some other way to put the day to good use. He remembered that the State
Department had been provided with a small manmitter by which they were
able to transport personnel to overseas embassies. If anyone were to go
through this manmitter today, it would be well for Hansard to be on hand:
Hansard could gain an ally for himself, and the new ghost would be spared
considerable anguish in learning to cope with his changed condition.
It would be too much to hope that the possible State Department traveller
would be bringing food with him. Nevertheless, Hansard hoped just that.
As he went out of the New St. George, Hansard stepped at the cashier's box
and made out a personal check in the amount of $50.00, which he placed in
the hotel's locked safe. It was not a wholly whimsical gesture, for Hansard
had a highly developed conscience and he would have suffered a pang of guilt
if he skipped out on a hotel bill.
He did not know in which of the several State Department buildings the
small manmitter would be located, but it was a simple matter to find
it by searching through the various corridors for heavy concentrations
of armed guards. When he did find it, at four in the afternoon, it was
immediately apparent that he had not been the first to search it out.
The walls and floor of the small anteroom adjoining the manmitter were
covered with delicate traceries of dried blood, which no cleaning woman
would ever remove, for they were not of the Real World. When Hansard
touched a fingertip to one of these stains, the thin film crumbled
into a fine powder, like ancient lace. There had been murders here,
and Hansard was certain that he knew the identity of the murderers.
And the victims? He hesitated to think of what distinguished men had used
the State Department's manmitter during recent months. Had not even the
then Vice-President Madigan traveled to King Charles III's Coronation
via this manmitter?
Hansard, absorbed in these somber considerations, was startled by the
sudden flash of red above the door of the manmitter's receiver compartment,
indicating that a reception had just been completed. There was a flurry
of activity among the guards in the anteroom, of whose presence Hansard
had been scarcely aware till then.
The door of the manmitter opened and a strange couple came out: an old man
in a power wheel chair, and an attractive black-haired woman in her early
thirties. Both wore heavy fur coats and caps that were matted with rain.
A guardsman approached the old man and seemed to engage him in an argument.
If only I knew how to lip-read, Hansard thought, not for the first time.
His attention had been
fatal, state of anoxic anoxemia. For the air that Hansard breathed here
in the city was not the air of the Real World, but the dematerialized
air created by the transmitters and kept from dispersing by the dome
above the city. Outside the dome, on the open highway or in another city,
his store of dematerialized oxygen would be quickly dissipated. The dome
kept him alive -- but it also kept him a prisoner.
Yet there had to be food of some sort coming through the transmitters,
for the men of Camp Jackson were surely sustained by more than air and
water. And since the greatest aid to solving a problem is knowing that
it can be solved, Hansard need not and did not panic.
Whatever food they were eating had to be going through the Camp Jackson
transmitter; and as only personnel went through the transmitters it must
be that the men were bringing food with them to Mars, probably concealed
in their duffels. Though this was against regulations, it was commonplace
practice, since the Command Post lacked a PX. But how could they know
to bring enough ?
Unless there was a way, which Hansard had yet to discover, of communicating
with the inhabitants of the Real World. . . .
Reluctant to return to Camp Jackson during the day, Hansard thought of
some other way to put the day to good use. He remembered that the State
Department had been provided with a small manmitter by which they were
able to transport personnel to overseas embassies. If anyone were to go
through this manmitter today, it would be well for Hansard to be on hand:
Hansard could gain an ally for himself, and the new ghost would be spared
considerable anguish in learning to cope with his changed condition.
It would be too much to hope that the possible State Department traveller
would be bringing food with him. Nevertheless, Hansard hoped just that.
As he went out of the New St. George, Hansard stepped at the cashier's box
and made out a personal check in the amount of $50.00, which he placed in
the hotel's locked safe. It was not a wholly whimsical gesture, for Hansard
had a highly developed conscience and he would have suffered a pang of guilt
if he skipped out on a hotel bill.
He did not know in which of the several State Department buildings the
small manmitter would be located, but it was a simple matter to find
it by searching through the various corridors for heavy concentrations
of armed guards. When he did find it, at four in the afternoon, it was
immediately apparent that he had not been the first to search it out.
The walls and floor of the small anteroom adjoining the manmitter were
covered with delicate traceries of dried blood, which no cleaning woman
would ever remove, for they were not of the Real World. When Hansard
touched a fingertip to one of these stains, the thin film crumbled
into a fine powder, like ancient lace. There had been murders here,
and Hansard was certain that he knew the identity of the murderers.
And the victims? He hesitated to think of what distinguished men had used
the State Department's manmitter during recent months. Had not even the
then Vice-President Madigan traveled to King Charles III's Coronation
via this manmitter?
Hansard, absorbed in these somber considerations, was startled by the
sudden flash of red above the door of the manmitter's receiver compartment,
indicating that a reception had just been completed. There was a flurry
of activity among the guards in the anteroom, of whose presence Hansard
had been scarcely aware till then.
The door of the manmitter opened and a strange couple came out: an old man
in a power wheel chair, and an attractive black-haired woman in her early
thirties. Both wore heavy fur coats and caps that were matted with rain.
A guardsman approached the old man and seemed to engage him in an argument.
If only I knew how to lip-read, Hansard thought, not for the first time.
His attention had been
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