water in with the air, and then—
And then he felt something hard smash into the side of his head, and, for the first time since this madness began, he saw light: stars before his eyes.
And then, the blackness again, and silence, and—
Nothing more.
* * *
Adikor Huld walked back up to the control room, shaking his head in astonishment, in disbelief.
Ponter and he had been friends for ages; they were both 145s, and had first met as students at the Science Academy. But in all that time, he’d never known Ponter to be given to practical jokes. And, besides, there was no place he could be hiding. Fire safety required multiple exits from a room on the surface, but down here practicality made that impossible. The only way out was by walking through the control room. Some computing facilities had false floors to conceal cabling, but here the cabling was out in the open, and the floor was ancient granite, polished smooth.
Adikor had been watching the controls; he hadn’t been looking out the window at the computing chamber. Still, there had been no flash of light to catch his eye. If Ponter had been—well, what? Vaporized? If he’d been vaporized, surely there should have been a smell of smoke or a tinge of ozone in the air. But there was nothing. He was simply gone .
Adikor collapsed into a chair—Ponter’s chair—stunned.
He didn’t know what to do next; he literally had no idea. It took several beats for him to focus his thoughts. He should notify the town’s administrative office that Ponter was missing; get them to organize a search. It was conceivable—barely—that the ground had opened up, and Ponter had fallen through, maybe into another drift, another level of the mine. In which case he might be injured.
Adikor got to his feet.
* * *
Dr. Reuben Montego, the two ambulance attendants, and the injured man entered through the sliding glass doors to Emergency Admitting at St. Joseph’s Health Centre, part of the Sudbury Regional Hospital.
The E.R.’s casualty officer turned out to be a Sikh in his midfifties with a jade green turban. “What is it that is wrong?” he asked.
Reuben glanced down at the man’s nametag, which read N. SINGH, M.D. “Dr. Singh,” he said, “I’m Reuben Montego, the site doctor at the Creighton Mine. This man here almost drowned in a tank of heavy water, and, as you can see, he’s suffered a cranial trauma.”
“Heavy water?” said Singh. “Where would you—”
“At the neutrino observatory,” said Reuben.
“Ah, yes,” replied Singh. He turned and called for a wheelchair, then looked back at the man and started making notes on a clipboard. “Unusual body form,” he said. “Pronounced supraorbital ridge. Very muscular, very broad shouldered. Short limbs. And—hello!—what is this, then?”
Reuben shook his head. “I don’t know. It seems to be implanted in his skin.”
“Very strange,” said Singh. He looked at the man’s face. “How do you feel?”
“He doesn’t speak English,” said Reuben.
“Ah,” said the Sikh. “Well, his bones will talk for him. Let’s get him into Radiology.”
* * *
Reuben Montego paced back and forth in the emergency department, occasionally speaking to a passing doctor he happened to know. At last, Singh got word that the x-rays were ready. Reuben was hoping to be invited along, out of professional courtesy, and Singh did indeed beckon for him to follow.
The injured man was still in the x-ray room, presumably in case Singh decided to order more pictures. He was seated now in his wheelchair, looking more frightened, Reuben thought, than even a small child usually did in a hospital. The radiology technician had clipped the man’s x-rays—a front view and a lateral shot—to a lighted wall panel, and Singh and Reuben moved over to examine them.
“Will you look at that?” said Reuben softly.
“Remarkable,” said Singh. “Remarkable.”
The skull was long—much longer than a
And then he felt something hard smash into the side of his head, and, for the first time since this madness began, he saw light: stars before his eyes.
And then, the blackness again, and silence, and—
Nothing more.
* * *
Adikor Huld walked back up to the control room, shaking his head in astonishment, in disbelief.
Ponter and he had been friends for ages; they were both 145s, and had first met as students at the Science Academy. But in all that time, he’d never known Ponter to be given to practical jokes. And, besides, there was no place he could be hiding. Fire safety required multiple exits from a room on the surface, but down here practicality made that impossible. The only way out was by walking through the control room. Some computing facilities had false floors to conceal cabling, but here the cabling was out in the open, and the floor was ancient granite, polished smooth.
Adikor had been watching the controls; he hadn’t been looking out the window at the computing chamber. Still, there had been no flash of light to catch his eye. If Ponter had been—well, what? Vaporized? If he’d been vaporized, surely there should have been a smell of smoke or a tinge of ozone in the air. But there was nothing. He was simply gone .
Adikor collapsed into a chair—Ponter’s chair—stunned.
He didn’t know what to do next; he literally had no idea. It took several beats for him to focus his thoughts. He should notify the town’s administrative office that Ponter was missing; get them to organize a search. It was conceivable—barely—that the ground had opened up, and Ponter had fallen through, maybe into another drift, another level of the mine. In which case he might be injured.
Adikor got to his feet.
* * *
Dr. Reuben Montego, the two ambulance attendants, and the injured man entered through the sliding glass doors to Emergency Admitting at St. Joseph’s Health Centre, part of the Sudbury Regional Hospital.
The E.R.’s casualty officer turned out to be a Sikh in his midfifties with a jade green turban. “What is it that is wrong?” he asked.
Reuben glanced down at the man’s nametag, which read N. SINGH, M.D. “Dr. Singh,” he said, “I’m Reuben Montego, the site doctor at the Creighton Mine. This man here almost drowned in a tank of heavy water, and, as you can see, he’s suffered a cranial trauma.”
“Heavy water?” said Singh. “Where would you—”
“At the neutrino observatory,” said Reuben.
“Ah, yes,” replied Singh. He turned and called for a wheelchair, then looked back at the man and started making notes on a clipboard. “Unusual body form,” he said. “Pronounced supraorbital ridge. Very muscular, very broad shouldered. Short limbs. And—hello!—what is this, then?”
Reuben shook his head. “I don’t know. It seems to be implanted in his skin.”
“Very strange,” said Singh. He looked at the man’s face. “How do you feel?”
“He doesn’t speak English,” said Reuben.
“Ah,” said the Sikh. “Well, his bones will talk for him. Let’s get him into Radiology.”
* * *
Reuben Montego paced back and forth in the emergency department, occasionally speaking to a passing doctor he happened to know. At last, Singh got word that the x-rays were ready. Reuben was hoping to be invited along, out of professional courtesy, and Singh did indeed beckon for him to follow.
The injured man was still in the x-ray room, presumably in case Singh decided to order more pictures. He was seated now in his wheelchair, looking more frightened, Reuben thought, than even a small child usually did in a hospital. The radiology technician had clipped the man’s x-rays—a front view and a lateral shot—to a lighted wall panel, and Singh and Reuben moved over to examine them.
“Will you look at that?” said Reuben softly.
“Remarkable,” said Singh. “Remarkable.”
The skull was long—much longer than a
Similar Books
A Mother's Love
Ruth Wind
Histoire De France 1305-1364
Jules Michelet
Hell-Bent
Benjamin Lorr
You Only Have to Be Right Once
Randall Lane
The Factory
Brian Freemantle
Licensed to Kill
Robert Young Pelton
Finding Focus
Jiffy Kate
Blurred Lines (Behind Closed Doors Book 2)
Erin Cawood
Take Courage
Phyllis Bentley