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.Clambered down to my old seat.Listened to the halfhearted murmur of the men.Mostly it was speculation about what's happened to our friends in the other compartments.Hour fourteen.Thro lets out a whoop."Here they are!""Here who are?" Mr.Westhause asks.He has the watch, such as it is."Rescue.goddamned.They're going after Weapons.The bastards." He slugs his console angrily.'Take it easy.We'll get our turn."The sons of bitches!You don't know how selfish you can be till you're in a survival situation seeing someone else being saved first.Forty-two minutes, every one spent hating and cursing Piniaz's cutthroats.Now our turn.With Rescue cursing us as heartily as we cursed Weapons.It takes them three hours to get the spin off the compartment."Not going to tow us," Throdahl announces."They're going to take us out right here.Going to scab a tube to the top hatch."A chung echoes through the compartment.More delicate sounds follow it.Someone is walking around on the roof.Yanevich waves me over, beckons Mr.Westhause."Let's get up by that hatch.We'll have to keep order.""What do you mean?""You'll see."I do.We have to threaten violence when the fresh water comes through.Some people seem willing to kill for a drink.We're lucky they're really too weak to riot."Take it easy!" I snap at Zia."Drink too much and you'll make yourself sick."Yanevich says, "Throdahl, get back to the radio.They'll tell us when to open the hatch."The stench of bile assails my nostrils.Zia has puked his stomach empty."I told you-----" Never mind.He had to learn."Undog the hatch," Throdahl yells."They've got the tube on."Yanevich checks the telltales on our side, unlocks the hatch.Several men surge up behind him.A pair of Marines squat outside the hatch."Get back," one says.They're wearing combat suits."You don't get out yet." They slither in, station themselves beside the opening.A med team follows them.A doctor and two medical corps-men in white plague suits.What is this?Are we carriers of the Black Death?The men crowd round our visitors, touching, murmuring with the awe of primitives.They can't really believe they're saved.Have these rescuers ever seen anything this bad? We're worse than a bunch of galley slaves.Unbathed for ages.Un-shaved.Clothed in moldy rags.Skin masked by scab and scale.Some men losing hair.Lucky the med team aren't female.Good way to get torn apart.These men aren't human anymore.In a few months the process of degeneration will begin anew, aboard a new Climber.But I won't be going out.Thank god.Not again.Neither will Chief Nicastro.The Chief."Steve.Waldo.Where's the Chief?""Nicastro?" Yanevich says."He was right.come on."We spread out.Not much to search.Westhause finds him immediately."Here.DC station.Medic!"I find him with fingers against Nicastro's jugular.He shakes his head."Medic!" I shout."What happened, Waldo?""I don't know.Heart maybe."Yanevich mutters, "He was determined he wasn't going to make it."The doctor goes the whole CPR route.No good."Nothing I can do here," he says."Under normal conditions.""Nothing's normal in the Climbers."I'm so numb I couldn't mourn my best friend.Nothing but low, banked coals of rage remain.The men are leaving.The Marines are making sure they stay civilized."Where's the Old Man?" Westhause asks."Upstairs." I point."I'll get him," Yanevich says."Go ahead.""Where's Fearless? Hey! Fred!" Suddenly, that cat is the most important thing in my universe.The men are all out.Westhause clambers through the hatchway."Now you," the doctor says."Can't.Got to find."The Marines make short work of me.The long tight tube leads to a receiving bay aboard the Rescue ship.I scramble through fast.Another med team is waiting.They're expecting animals.A barrage of water smashes me flat.I tumble across a cold, hard deck.Three times I get to my feet and go after the hose man.He has no trouble protecting himself.The bay is under full gravity.My weary, weak muscles can't handle it.Disgusted, I surrender to the inevitable, let myself be driven into an immersion bath.They don't give me time to shed my clothing.Takes the piss and vinegar out of you fast.I suppose that's why they do it.Splashing and wailing, I struggle to the tank's far side.There's no fight in me anymore.A hand comes down.I grab it.In a moment I'm lying on the deck, panting.My shipmates gag and gasp around me.Throdahl, in the bath, is promising murder.The med crew don't let him out till he changes his mind."Can you stand up?" My helper's voice is spooky.Planetary atmosphere here, and he's wearing a mask.I grunt an affirmative."Get your clothes off.Sir."It's a struggle, but I manage."What about my stuff?"The medic scoops my rags into a basket with a little plastic pitchfork."You'll get it back.If you want it
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