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the cell would serve to draw the Alien’s attention once the entry door opened. Which would give him a few seconds to attack it from the side.
    Bill grinned. His escape from an escape-proof cell on an Alien starship would be a grand tale to share with his drinking buddies at the Deep Six!
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

CHAPTER THREE
     
    As Bill waited for the oxygen in the cell’s air to drop below the normal 21 percent of Earth’s air, he could not help recalling what he’d learned from an Air Force flight doc as he and his platoon buddies prepared for a high altitude free fall chute drop. The doc had explained why they needed a supplemental oxy tank.
    Any air with less than 19.5 percent of oxy is considered deficient air. At levels of 16 to 19.5 percent, a person will begin to experience increased breathing rates, accelerated heart beat and some confused thinking. At levels of 12 to 16 percent you get full onset of tachypnea, or fast breathing, tachycardia or speeded up heart beat, and impaired thinking and coordination even in people at full rest. Below 10 percent he’d experience nausea, vomiting and eventual unconsciousness. If the cell air ever hit six percent he would go into convulsions followed by his heart stopping. The Air Force had called these symptoms anoxic anoxia. Well, he’d learned to concentrate carefully while doing closed and open circuit scuba dives. And he’d gotten used to thin air while hiking up to the top of several peaks in the Rockies. So he crouched to the right side of the door, slowed his breathing, held his belt garrote ready to toss over the head or neck or whatever of some Alien, and worked on slowing his heart rate. He’d learned the basics of meditation while hanging with a Buddhist from the Royal Thai Air Force. The guy had been mellow, competent, efficient and interesting. Not as good as Navy Special Ops folks, let alone his fellow SEALs. Still, the guy was willing to share his knowledge of centered meditation. Which involved breathing exercises. And Bill had been willing to learn.
    He gasped deeply.
    Shit . He’d not intended to do that. Gasping meant the air was already down to 16 percent, while the carbon dioxide levels were higher. His scuba training had taught Bill how a malfunctioning suit regulator could produce too much CO 2 . Or a too tight scuba suit could do the same. Avoiding the rebreathing of exhaled air had been a part of basic scuba instruction. Now, he had no choice. He had to breath in order to get some oxygen into his lungs. He grimaced. It would become a race between nausea and vomiting caused either by too much carbon dioxide or by too little oxygen.
    His temples felt tight. An ache began in his head. His chest wanted to heave to get a deep breath. He suppressed that impulse. He also suppressed the faster heart beating that sounded in his ears. At least he tried, using meditative techniques to slow his breathing. Blinking his eyes, he kept his attention focused on the oval outline of the entry door. Somehow it would open. Maybe it would slide up, slide down or move sideways. Once it did, an Alien critter would enter. Likely the critter would focus immediately on his backpack and the flashlight that shone a beam at the door, and assume he was hiding behind the pack. The light in his cell had gotten darker as the shit smear on the ceiling dried. To tighten his mental focus he began counting backward from one thousand.
    “Nine hundred ninety-seven, ninety-six, ninety-five, ninety-four, ninety . . . uh, ninety-two, damn it!”
    He had missed two numbers. Centering his thoughts he focused on the visuals of the cell, on the slight increase in his heart rate, on his slow breathing and ignored the growing headache. Bill sent his senses outward, linking into the feel of the metal floor, the echo of his breathing as it bounced off the opposite wall, the sense of weight he felt thanks to the ship’s artificial