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  Less than optimal was an understatement. White Sands was little more than an isolated landing strip equipped with heading alignment cylinders.

  “There’s the matter of getting the corpse back as soon as possible,” said Todd Cutler. “While an autopsy’s still useful.”

  “We’re all aware of that,” said the program manager. “But weigh it against the negatives. White Sands is limited. Civilian medical backup just isn’t there, if we have any problems on landing. In fact, all things considered, I’d suggest we wait it out even longer, till Kennedy’s clear. Logistically, it’s the best thing for the program. Quicker orbiter turnaround, get her right back on the pad for the next mission. In the meantime, the flight crew can use ISS as a hotel for the next few days.”

  Several other program managers nodded. They were all taking the most conservative approach. The crew was safe where they were; the urgency of bringing home Hirai’s corpse paled in light of all the problems of a White Sands landing. Carpenter thought of all the ways he could be second-guessed should there, God forbid, be a catastrophic landing at White Sands. He thought of the questions he would ask, were he reviewing the decisions of another flight director. Why didn’t you wait out the weather? Why did you hurry them home?

  The right decision was the one that minimized risk, yet met mission goals.

  He decided to choose the middle ground.

  “Three days is stretching it out too long,” he said. “So Kennedy’s out. Let’s go for Edwards. Maybe we’ll get clear skies tomorrow.” He looked at the forecaster. “Make those clouds go away.”

  “Sure. I’ll just do a reverse rain dance.”

  Carpenter glanced at the wall clock. “Okay, crew’s wakeup call is in four hours. We’ll give ’em the news then. They can’t come home quite yet.”

  August 9

  Jill Hewitt woke up gasping. Her first conscious thought was that she was drowning, that with every breath, she was inhaling water.

  She opened her eyes, and with her first panicked glance saw what looked like a swarm of jellyfish drifting around her. She coughed, at last managed to draw in a deep breath, and coughed again. The sharply expelled air sent all the jellyfish tumbling away.

  She scrambled out of her restraint bag and turned up the cabin lights. In amazement she stared at the shimmering air.

  “Bob!” she yelled. “We’ve got a spill!”

  She heard O’Leary say, up on flight deck, “Jesus, what the hell is this?”

  “Get out the masks!” ordered Kittredge. “Until we know this isn’t toxic.”

  Jill opened the emergency locker, pulled out the contaminant-protection kit, and tossed masks and goggles to Kittredge, O’Leary, and Mercer as they came diving down the access opening into middeck. There’d been no time to get dressed; everyone was still in their underwear, still shaking off sleep.

  Now, with their masks on, they stared at the blue-green globules drifting around them.

  Mercer reached out and captured one in his hand. “Weird,” he said, rubbing it between his fingers. “It feels thick. Slimy. Like some sort of mucus.”

  Now O’Leary, the medical officer, caught one and held it up to his goggles for a closer look. “It’s not even liquid.”

  “Looks to me like a liquid,” said Jill. “It behaves like one.”

  “But it’s more gelatinous. Almost like—”

  They all gave a start as loud music abruptly blared out. It was Elvis Presley’s velvet voice singing “Blue Suede Shoes.” Their morning wake-up call from Mission Control.

  “And a good mornin’ to you, Discovery,” came Capcom’s cheery voice. “Time to rise and shine, folks!”

  Kittredge responded, “Capcom, we’re already awake. We’ve, uh, got ourselves a strange situation up here.”

  “Situation?”

  “We have some sort of spill in the cabin. We’re trying to identify it. It’s a viscous substance. Sort of a milky blue-green. Almost looks like little opals floating around. It’s already spread to both decks.”

  “You guys wearing your masks?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “You know where it’s coming from?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “Okay, we’re consulting ECLSS right now. They may have an idea what it is.”

  “Whatever it is, it doesn’t seem to be toxic. We’ve all been asleep with this stuff hanging in the air. None of us seems to be sick.” Kittredge glanced around at his masked crew, and they all shook their heads.

  “Is there any odor to the spill?” asked Capcom. “ECLSS wants to know if it could be from the waste collection system.”

  Suddenly Jill felt queasy. Was this stuff they’d been breathing in, swimming in, leaked toilet waste?

  “Uh—I guess one of us has to take a sniff,” said Kittredge. He looked around at his crew, who merely stared back. “Gee, guys, don’t all volunteer at once,” he muttered, and finally lifted his mask. He smeared a globule between his fingers and took a whiff. “I don’t think this is sewage. It doesn’t smell chemical, either. At least, not petroleum-based.”

  “What does it smell like?” asked Capcom.

  “Sort of…fishy. Like the slime off a trout. Something from the galley, maybe?”

  “Or it could be leakage from one of the life-science payloads. You’re carrying a few experiments back from ISS. Aren’t there aquarium enclosures onboard?”

  “This stuff does sort of remind me of frog eggs. We’ll inspect the enclosures,” said Kittredge. He looked around the cabin, at the glistening clumps adhering to the walls. “It’s landing on everything now. We’re gonna be cleaning up the splatters for a while. It’ll set back our reentry.”

  “Uh, Discovery, I hate to break the news,” said Capcom. “But reentry’s going to be delayed in any event. You’ll have to sit tight.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “We’ve got some weather down here. Kennedy’s looking at crosswinds of up to forty knots, with thunderstorm anvils in the vicinity. Tropical storm’s moving in from the southeast. She’s already made a mess of the Dominican Republic, and she’s headed for the Keys.”

  “What about Edwards?”

  “They’re currently reporting a seven-thousand-foot cloud ceiling. It should clear up in the next two days. So unless you guys are anxious to land at White Sands, we’re looking at a delay of at least thirty-six hours. We may have you reopen the hatches and join the crew on ISS again.”

  Kittredge eyed the globules drifting by. “Negative on that, Capcom. We’d contaminate the station with this spill. We’ve gotta get things cleaned up.”

  “Roger that. Surgeon is standing by here, wants to confirm that your crew is experiencing no adverse effects. Is that correct?”

  “The spill appears harmless. No one’s showing any signs of illness.” He batted away a clump of globules, and they went spinning off like scattered pearls. “They’re really kind of pretty. But I hate to think of them gunking up our electronics, so we’d better get cracking on cleanup detail.”

  “We’ll update you on the weather as it changes, Discovery. Now get out those mops and buckets.”

  “Yeah,” laughed Kittredge. “Just call us the sky-high cleaning service. We even do windows.” He pulled off his mask. “I guess it’s safe to take ’em off.”

  Jill took off her mask and goggles and glided across to the emergency locker. She had just stowed the equipment when she found Mercer staring at her.

  “What?” she said.

  “Your eye—what happened to it?”

  “What’s wrong with my eye?”

  “You’d better take a look.”

  She floated across to the hygiene station. Her first glimpse in the mirror was shocking. The sclera of one of her eyes was bloodred. Not merely streaked, but a solid crimson.

  “Jesus,” she murmured, horrified by her own reflection. I’m a pilot. I need my eyes. And one of them looks like a bag of blood.

  O’Leary turned her around by the shoulder
s and examined her eye. “It’s nothing to worry about, okay?” he said. “It’s just a scleral hemorrhage.”

  “Just?”

  “A small bleed into the white of your eye. It looks more serious than it is. It’ll clear up without any effect on your vision.”

  “How did I get it?”

  “Sudden changes in intracranial pressure can do it. Sometimes a violent cough or heavy vomiting is all it takes to pop a tiny vessel.”

  She gave a relieved sigh. “That must be it. I woke up coughing on one of those floating goombahs.”

  “See? Nothing to worry about.” He gave her a pat. “That’ll be fifty bucks. Next patient!”

  Reassured, Jill turned back to the mirror. It’s merely a small bleed, she thought. Nothing to worry about. But the image staring back horrified her. One normal eye, one eye an evil and brilliant red. Something alien. Satanic.

  August 10

  “They’re the houseguests from hell,” said Luther. “We shut the door on ’em and they still refuse to leave.”

  Everyone in the galley laughed, even Emma. In the last few days there had not been much in the way of humor aboard ISS, and it was a relief to hear people joking again. Since they’d transferred Kenichi’s corpse to Discovery, everyone’s mood seemed brighter. His shrouded body had been a grim and constant reminder of death, and Emma was relieved she no longer had to confront the evidence of her own failure. She could focus, once again, on her work.

  She could even laugh at Luther’s crack, although the subject of his humor—the orbiter’s failure to depart—was not, in fact, very funny. It complicated their day. They had expected Discovery to undock early yesterday morning. Now it was a day later, and she was still mated and could not leave for at least the next twelve hours. Her uncertain departure time threw the station’s work schedule into uncertainty as well. Undocking was more than just a simple matter of the orbiter detaching itself and flying away. It was a delicate dance between two massive objects hurtling at 17,500 miles per hour, and it required the cooperation of both the orbiter and ISS crews. During undocking, the space station’s control software had to be temporarily reconfigured for proximity operations, and its crew suspended many of its research activities. Everyone had to be focused on the orbiter’s departure.

  On avoiding calamity.

  Now a cloudy day over an air force base in California had delayed everything, wreaking havoc on the space station’s work schedule. But this was the nature of spaceflight; the only thing predictable about it was the unpredictable.

  An alarming blob of grape juice came floating by Emma’s head. And here was more unpredictability, she thought, laughing, as a sheepish Luther went chasing after it with a straw. You let your attention wander for just an instant, and there goes a vital tool or a sip’s worth of juice drifting away. Without gravity, an unrestrained object could end up anywhere.

  This was something the crew of Discovery was now confronting. “We had glops of this stuff land all over our aft DAP controls,” she heard Kittredge say over the radio. Discovery’s commander was conversing with Griggs on the space-to-space subsystem. “We’re still trying to clean off the toggle switches, but it’s like thick mucus when it dries. I just hope it hasn’t plugged up any data ports.”

  “You find out where it’s coming from?” asked Griggs.

  “We found a small crack in the toadfish enclosure. But it doesn’t look like much leaked out—not enough to account for what’s flying around the cabin.”

  “Where else could it be coming from?”

  “We’re checking the galley and commode now. We’ve been so busy cleaning up, we haven’t had a chance to identify the source. I just can’t figure out what this stuff is. It sort of reminds me of frog eggs. Round clumps, in this sticky green mass. You should see my crew—it’s like they’ve been slimed on Ghostbusters. And then Hewitt’s got this evil red eye. Man, we’re scary looking.”

  Evil red eye? Emma turned to Griggs. “What’s wrong with Hewitt’s eye?” she said. “I didn’t hear about it.”

  Griggs relayed the question to Discovery.

  “It’s just a scleral bleed,” answered Kittredge. “Nothing serious, according to O’Leary.”

  “Let me talk to Kittredge,” said Emma.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Bob, this is Emma,” she said. “How did Jill get that scleral bleed?”

  “She woke up coughing yesterday. We think that’s what did it.”

  “Is she having any abdominal pains? Headaches?”

  “She did complain of a headache a little while ago. And we’ve all got muscle aches. But we’ve been working like dogs here.”

  “Nausea? Vomiting?”

  “Mercer’s got an upset stomach. Why?”

  “Kenichi had a scleral bleed too.”

  “But that’s not a serious condition,” said Kittredge. “That’s what O’Leary says.”

  “No, it’s the cluster of symptoms that concerns me,” said Emma. “Kenichi’s illness started with vomiting and a scleral hemorrhage. Abdominal pains. A headache.”

  “Are you saying this is some sort of contagion? Then why aren’t you sick? You took care of him.”

  A good question. She couldn’t answer that.

  “What disease are we talking about?” asked Kittredge.

  “I don’t know. I do know Kenichi was incapacitated within a day of his first symptoms. You guys need to undock and go home now. Before anyone on Discovery gets sick.”

  “No can do. Edwards is still under clouds.”

  “Then White Sands.”

  “Not a good option right now. They’ve got a problem with one of their TACANs. Hey, we’re doing fine. We’ll just wait out the weather. It shouldn’t be more than another twenty-four hours.”

  Emma looked at Griggs. “I want to talk to Houston.”

  “They’re not going to head for White Sands just because Hewitt’s got a red eye.”

  “It could be more than just a scleral hemorrhage.”

  “How would they catch Kenichi’s illness? They weren’t exposed to him.”

  The corpse, she thought. His corpse is on the orbiter.

  “Bob,” she said. “This is Emma again. I want you to check the shroud.”

  “What?”

  “Check Kenichi’s shroud for a breach.”

  “You saw for yourself it’s sealed tight.”

  “Are you sure it still is?”

  “Okay,” he sighed. “I have to admit, we haven’t checked the body since it came aboard. I guess we were all a little creeped-out about it. We’ve kept the pallet panel closed so we wouldn’t have to look at him.”

  “How does the shroud look?”

  “I’m trying to get the panel open now. It seems to be sticking a little, but . . .” There was a silence. Then a murmured “Jesus.”

  “Bob?”

  “The spill’s coming from the shroud!”

  “What is it? Blood, serum?”

  “There’s a tear in the plastic. I can see it leaking out!”

  What was leaking out?

  She heard other voices in the background. Loud groans of disgust, and the sound of someone retching.

  “Seal it off. Seal it off!” said Emma. But they didn’t answer.

  Jill Hewitt said, “His body feels like mush. As if he’s … dissolving. We should find out what’s happening to it.”

  “No!” cried Emma. “Discovery, do not open the shroud!”

  To her relief, Kittredge finally responded, “Roger that, Watson. O’Leary, seal it up. We’re not going to let any more of…that stuff…leak out.”

  “Maybe we should jettison the body,” said Jill.

  “No,” Kittredge answered. “They want it for autopsy.”

  “What sort of fluid is it?” asked Emma. “Bob, answer me!”

  There was a silence. Then he said, “I don’t know. But whatever it is, I hope it’s not infectious. Because we’ve all been exposed.”

  Twenty-eight pounds of flab
and fur. That was Humphrey, sprawled like a fat pasha on Jack’s chest. This cat is trying to murder me, thought Jack, staring up into Humphrey’s malevolent green eyes. He’d fallen asleep on the couch, and the next thing he knew, a ton of kitty lard was crushing his ribs, squeezing the air out of his lungs.

  Purring, Humphrey sank a claw into Jack’s chest.

  With a yelp, Jack shoved him away, and Humphrey landed on all fours with a ponderous thump.

  “Go catch a mouse,” Jack muttered, and turned on his side to resume his nap, but it was hopeless. Humphrey was yowling to be fed. Again. Yawning, Jack dragged himself off the couch and stumbled into the kitchen. As soon as he opened the cupboard where the cat food was stored, Humphrey began to yowl louder. Jack filled the cat bowl with Little Friskies and stood watching in disgust as his nemesis chowed down. It was only three in the afternoon, and Jack had not yet caught up on his sleep. He’d been awake all night, manning the surgeon’s console in the space station control room, and then had come home and settled on the couch to review the ECLSS subsystems for the space station. He was back in the game, and it felt good. It even felt good to wade through a bone-dry MOD training manual. But fatigue had finally caught up with him, and he’d dropped off to sleep around noon, surrounded by stacks of flight manuals.

  Humphrey’s bowl was already half empty. Unbelievable.

  As Jack turned to leave the kitchen, the phone rang.

  It was Todd Cutler. “We’re rounding up medical personnel to meet Discovery at White Sands,” he said. “The plane’s leaving Ellington in thirty minutes.”

  “Why White Sands? I thought Discovery was going to wait for Edwards to clear up.”

  “We’ve got a medical situation on board, and we can’t wait for the weather to clear. They’re going to deorbit in an hour. Plan on infectious precautions.”

  “What’s the infection?”

  “Not yet identified. We’re just playing it safe. Are you with us?”

  “Yeah, I’m with you,” said Jack, without an instant’s hesitation.

  “Then you’d better get moving or you’ll miss the plane.”

  “Wait. Who’s the patient? Which one’s sick?”