He got to his feet and staggered to the inner lock and leaned against it. That didn't open, either. He shouted. It might take time, but eventually someone would come close enough to hear him.
There was air in the passageway and he knew he could survive. It had been too hot; now it was getting cold. He shivered and shook his head in bewilderment.
None of this was the way it ought to be. It had never been difficult to get on the ship. If he didn't know better, he'd say—
But this was not the time to say that.
He didn't hear the footsteps on the other side. The lock swung in and he fell forward. His burned hands were too cold to hurt as he checked his fall.
Scantily clad, Larienne stood over him. "Playing hiding games?" she asked. She got a better look and knelt by his side. "You're hurt!"
So he was, but mostly he was tired. In the interval before he accepted the luxury of unconsciousness, the thought flashed across his mind before he could disown it: Someone on the ship was trying to take the plant away, or wanted him to fail.
Either would have been accomplished if he had been left behind.
He sat in his room, thinking. He wished he knew more about the crew. Six months was enough to give him wide acquaintance, but not the deep kind. They were a clannish lot on the ship. His own assistant he knew well enough, and the doctor. The captain he hardly ever saw. The rest of them he knew by sight and name, but not much else: the few married couples, the legally unattached girls, and the larger number of male technicians.