Awkwardly, Carl grasped the bare hand with the thick glove of his jumper. "I know," he said. He was suddenly at a loss for words. What DID one say at a time like this? Certainly not the time-worn Dr. Livingston cliche.
Stewart Ferguson said it anyhow.
Carl studied the man carefully, watching the rise and fall of his breathing. The man WAS breathing—breathing the lethal gases that should kill him in thirty seconds.
"You find it hard to believe, don't you?" Edgerton said suddenly.
Carl nodded. "I have a nephew who collects stamps," he heard himself saying. "He has one with your picture on it. It's a rarity now, 'cause it's almost forty years old, but the picture on the stamp looks just like you—just like you do NOW!"
"How is it done Mr. Edgerton?" Diane asked pointedly. "Why is it that you can breathe this air when it kills everyone else?"
Edgerton's eyes narrowed when he heard the voice. Then he leaned over and peered into the mud-stained face-plate. He smiled. "I'll be damned," he said. "A woman. A real live woman! Pretty too."
"How is it done?" Diane persisted.
Edgerton's grin faded. He turned to Carl. "You mean you don't know?"
Carl eyed the man, his lips set in an aggravating silence. Then: "Yes, I know. Or at least I think I know. Furthermore, Dr. Hamlin knows too. He's known all the time. Obviously, this girl is the only one who's still in the dark. I think it's about time someone told her."