Dragging himself up, he clambered to the bunk.
Eileen's eyes were closed, her tongue and fingers still at last. To Boone, it seemed as if her forehead were less feverish—as if she might even be asleep.
But again, she might have slipped into a coma. In his own state, he couldn't be sure.
As for the crash, the room—Blinking, he looked around.
The cabin's angle was still the same. Thirty degrees, at least.
Only the room couldn't stay this way, tilted. Not with the sphere floating free in space. That was what the orientational gyroscopes were designed to prevent.
In the same instant, he caught the first faint whiff of ammonia.
A chill ran through him. Scrambling erect, he snatched up the blaster, fumbled open the door, and peered out into the corridor.
No monsters—but something worse. For here the ammonia-smell hung even stronger.