Production Test

But who would finally think to look for him in the icebox?

It would be Monday at least before they got around to searching the plant in such detail.

By then it wouldn't matter. He had been watching the air gauge for a long time now. There was only enough air for thirty-two hours at the most.

He lay there for another hour without moving. His mind seemed stunned beyond functioning by the calamity of his fall.

But after a time he wondered idly what had happened to the ghost. Perhaps it had taken pity on him and wasn't going to haunt him in his present predicament, anyway. Whatever the reason, the absence of that high-pitched screaming was one small blessing to be thankful for.

Or was it? Even as he thought about it he shifted his one free leg and the sound piped faintly in his ears. The irritating, knifelike vibration channeled through every nerve path and shook his body. He kicked out violently in an effort to shift position and ease the aching spots of contact between his body and the suit.

The sound surged to a higher, more racking pitch, then passed beyond audibility.

Ghosts.

In a spacesuit. In an icebox. He laughed sharply without humor. Our suits may spread eagle, but they don't scream. Johnson would be pleased to have his confirmation that they did scream. As if Johnson would ever know what he found out -

He clenched his teeth. If he was going to die here, he could at least die sane. And if his brain were still functioning he should be able to figure out that scream.

What makes sound? Vibration. Of what? He thought of all the elements of the suit that might vibrate. There weren't any. Unless —

Air columns vibrate. But there weren't any air columns. No — but there was air going through an orifice. That made a whistle. Suddenly he laughed out loud. He kicked his leg sharply and listened to the resulting shrill scream.

"Hello, ghost," he said.

It was the pressure regulator valve in the back of the suit. Every time a joint of the suit moved the volume decreased or increased with a change of air pressure inside that might be as much as a hundred percent. The regulator valve took care of that. As the volume decreased the valve drew off some of the air to a low pressure tank. As the volume increased, it passed back some of the air from a high pressure tank, thus maintaining constant air pressure within the suit regardless of the contortions of the occupant. When the low pressure tank was filled, an automatic pump evacuated it to the high pressure tank.

This complex arrangement could, of course, have been eliminated by a simple exhaust valve — but that would have been too wasteful of the suit's air supply which was even freed of carbon dioxide and excess water vapor by chemical means and reused.

So, from some accident of design or construction, the regulator whistled and screamed at the occupant every time it was called upon to adjust the pressure. It was very nearly a supersonic vibration. Certainly it had harmonics way up in that region.

Kimberly moved his leg slowly and listened to the sound. He jerked sharply and the valve squealed with horrible insistence. Almost made it talk, he thought. He moved jerkily in imitation of spoken words. The valve responded with weird cries and chilling screams.

And so he knew the answer to that one.

But there was no pleasure in it. For a moment it had distracted his mind. Distraction, however, would have to be extremely powerful to draw attention from the kind of death he was facing. At the end, he supposed it would be simplest to just open the exhaust valve as quickly as possible.

His eyes, wandering aimlessly, settled on the communications panel directly above his face. The mike there, connected to the outside world, mocked him with its ability to carry a cry for help that might be heard sooner or later by a watchman. But nothing on earth would carry his voice through the thick fabric of the suit and across the five and a half feet of vacuum between him and the mike.

A carrier. He had the radio set in the suit. Useless in the metal walled room.

Carrier -

He trembled suddenly. He had a carrier — maybe. A ghost could carry a message for him.

He laughed a little hysterically and it relieved his tension. He couldn't be sure it would work, he told himself. No use building hope until he knew. This solemn rationalisation couldn't still the hard beating of his heart. He wanted to live, and the involuntary muscles of his body refused to be stilled in the face of reviving hope.

He moved his free leg until his knee came into his sight. Slowly, he shoved himself backwards until he could touch the wall with the digital manipulators of one hand. He spread them until they made the greatest possible contact with the metal wall.

Then he raised and lowered his knee slowly. The faint, high scream of the valve pierced his audio nerves.

He opened his mouth and called with a voice that thundered in his own ears. "Open up! Open the icebox. Bryan Kimberly — in the icebox. Open —"