Al heaved a sigh and swung onto the ladder, letting himself down, which was outward, toward the rim of the wheel. "I might have trouble," he said.
Al put his hands against the bulkhead door. It was cool enough. The Death Glow wasn't seeping into the ship. The Glow itself wasn't the contagious part. It was the sparks that shot from men's bodies. The early stages of the disease were the dangerous ones, for then the sparks were often too small to be seen. In the later stages a man suffering from Quinnies gave off his own warning and could be avoided.
Al took a small intercom phone from a box beside the doorway. He spoke into it. "Joe."
A voice came back. "Yeah. That you, commander?"
"Yes, Joe. How do you feel?"
"Like hell, I guess. Funny though, there's no pain. Just annoying. Like the hiccups. And I'm getting weaker."
"You're in the last stages."
"Maybe. Maybe not. I've heard of guys that lived fourteen months shooting sparks worse than I'm doing right now."
"I'm coming in, Joe."