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this much was certain, and no one could resist summoning
his deductive reasoning to try to unravel the one question that
plagued them all: What was the rock and what happened?
    When the eight hours were
up and Mr. Reynolds was still not among the lucid, the scientists
were exhausted and not completely coherent, themselves. It was
difficult enough to sustain a healthy circadian rhythm with no
daylight, but to also be forced awake by overreaching
imaginations…well, the stumbling feet and drooping faces of Mr.
Reynolds’s peers would strongly suggest that such a mixture was in
direct opposition to alertness.
    Once everyone had shuffled
to the coffee maker for that sweet, brown gold of caffeine, they
each took a chair and began discussing a plan. Everyone knew what
must be done. They had, in fact, already agreed upon it, but still
no one wanted to assume the potentially unlucky responsibility. The
fact that everyone’s constitution was half-mast at best wasn’t
helping things. Geoffrey decided he had had enough and that he
would make the dreaded phone call. His career had yet to really
begin, but more importantly, he had seen with his own eyes what
happened to Mr. Reynolds. If the others were undecided on whether
or not to believe his account, he wasn’t. Just like everyone else at the station,
Geoffrey had been briefed rigorously on the protocols of how to
call for help in just such an event.
    He stepped briskly toward
the glass case that housed one of the special satellite phones used
to contact help in situations like this, but before he could reach
it, one of the other scientists spoke up in the first harsh tone
Geoffrey had heard (outside of Mr. Reynolds’s, of course) since he
first got to the station.
    “And just what do you think
you’re doing, Son?” the scientist asked, coldly.
    “I’m calling for help,”
answered Geoffrey, as professionally as he could. He was already
seething at the fact that either these people had mistaken him for
a liar, or didn’t have enough balls between them to consider
anything other than their own precious careers. He didn’t want to
add to the mess that was already on everyone’s hands.
    “Yeah, I
can see that, but if you know how to call for help, then you know
damn well that an intern, ” the scientist laid great
emphasis upon the word, “shouldn’t be calling for help unless none
of the scientists are able to do so themselves.”
    Of course Geoffrey knew as
much. He also knew that the scientist speaking to him so roughly
knew what Geoffrey was doing before he asked, mainly because he
(Geoffrey) had just told everyone what he was going to do before he
stood from his seat. Geoffrey stood with his back to the group and
his face to the phone in the glass case. He hadn’t moved an inch
from where he stopped when Benjamin, the other scientist, spoke to
him. He wanted badly to turn upon his superiors, to yell at them
that he was forced to make the call precisely because they were unable to do
so themselves, because they were all spineless cowards. He wanted
to scream at them that a man—an incredibly pretentious man, albeit,
but a man nonetheless—was unconscious on a stainless steel table in
the middle of the room and they, a bunch of supposedly
professional, grown-ass men and women, were too concerned with
their reputations to even let someone know, but Geoffrey knew that,
as right and just as it may feel to lash out, it would do
absolutely no good at all.
    Instead, he took a deep
breath. “Well, would one of you call please?” he asked between
painfully clenched teeth, still not bothering to turn to face the
others. “ I’ll take the heat.” He knew that the gesture would be insulting,
but he couldn’t resist at least a little defiance.
    “Yeah, intern, ” same emphasis, “we’ll do
that, but in the meantime, you can just have yourself a
seat.”
    Geoffrey took another deep
breath and returned to his chair. Benjamin glared at him for a few
long moments and then