Isaac Asimov by Fantastic Voyage Page B

frantically made at the thermal blanket. Each technician studied his own monitor as though it were his new bride, isolated at last. The nurses hovered about Benes like large, starch-winged butterflies.
    With the
Proteus
beginning the preparation for miniaturization, every man and woman on the floor knew the last stage of the countdown had begun.
    Reid pushed a button. “Heart!”
    The Heart Sector was laid out in detail on the TV screen that was rostrumed just under Reid. Within that sector, theEKG recordings dominated and the heartbeat sounded in a dull double-thump of sorrowful slowness. “How does it look, Henry?”
    “Perfect. Holding steady at thirty-two per minute. No abnormalities, acoustic or electronic. The rest of him should only be like this.”
    “Good.” Reid flicked him off. To a heart man, what could be wrong if the heart was right?
    He turned on the Lung Sector. The world on the screen was suddenly one of respiration rates. “All right, Jack?”
    “All right, Dr. Reid. I’ve got the respiration down to six per minute. Can’t take it any lower.”
    “I’m not asking you to. Carry on.”
    Hypothermia next. This sector was larger than the rest. It had to concern itself with all the body and here the theme was the thermometer. Temperature readings at the limbs, at various points of the torso, at delicate contacts making readings at definite depths below the skin. There were constantly creeping temperature recordings with each wiggle bearing its own label: “Circulatory,” “Respiratory,” “Cardiac,” “Renal,” “Intestinal,” and so on.
    “Any problems, Sawyer?” asked Reid.
    “No, sir. Overall average is at twenty-eight degrees centigrade—eighty-two degrees Fahrenheit.”
    “You needn’t convert, thank you.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    It was as though Reid could feel the hypothermia biting at his own vitals. Sixteen Fahrenheit degrees below normal; sixteen crucial degrees, slowing metabolism to about one-third normal; cutting the oxygen needs to one-third; slowing the heartbeat, the rate of blood flow, the scale of life, the strain on the clot-blocked brain.  —And making the environment more favorable for the ship that was soon to enter the jungle of the human interior.
    Carter moved back toward Reid, “All set, Don?”
    “As near as can be managed, considering that this was improvised overnight.”
    “I doubt that very much.”
    Reid flushed, “What’s that supposed to mean, general?”
    “No improvisation was needed. It’s no secret to me that you’ve been laying the groundwork for biological experiments with miniaturization. Have you been planning, specifically, the exploration of the human circulatory system?”
    “Not specifically, no. But my team has been working on such problems as a matter of course. That was their job.”
    “Don …” Carter hesitated, then went on tightly. “If this fails, Don, someone’s head will be needed for the governmental trophy room, and mine will be the handiest. If this succeeds, you and your men will come out of it smelling like lilies-of-the-valley. Don’t try to push that too far if it happens.”
    “The military will still have first call, eh? Are you telling me not to get in the way?”
    “It might be sensible not to. —Another thing. What’s wrong with the girl, Cora Peterson?”
    “Nothing. Why?”
    “Your voice was loud enough. I heard you just before I came into the conference room. Do you know of any reason why she shouldn’t be on board?”
    “She’s a woman. She may not be reliable in emergencies. Besides …”
    “Yes?”
    “If you want the truth, Duval assumed his usual I-am-the-law-and-the-prophets manner, and I automatically objected. How far do
you
trust Duval?”
    “What do you mean, trust?”
    “What’s your real reason for sending Grant along on the mission? Who’s he supposed to keep his eye on?”
    Carter said in a low, husky tone, “I haven’t told him to keep an eye on anyone. —The crew should