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.