Red streaks of pain tore through his head, down his neck muscles and into his chest. The slightest breathing movements racked his lungs, but, incredibly, they sucked in rich, sweet oxygen, heavy and dense.
He knew he must be in a compression tank. The whispering pump and muffled sound of voices outside were evidence enough, although he couldn't open his eyes.
The mists cleared quickly now, and the voices formed words. He recognized Martha Rice's voice. "—anoxia. I can't determine how severe. Have to wait and see. He may be all right when he gets over the headache. Then again there may be permanent brain damage."
Duncan hurt too much to care. He passed out again. When he regained consciousness he realized the pressure was reduced, for his lungs were pumping hard again. Then the coffin clanked apart, the sides dropped and he was trying to focus on the ring of female faces that surrounded him.
"Hiya, Mister?" Martha's face settled down to a recognizable fuzz-ball.
His head was clear now, but his throat was too tight to consider speaking. He stared back blankly. The physician shook her head, misunderstanding his failure to respond. A nurse rigged an intravenous bottle, and they left him to his thoughts. He slept again, restlessly this time. He dreamed of the accident, the wrench floating with terrible slowness toward Porter. Abruptly, he was back on earth. His mother was rubbing his neck and shoulders. Her hands were soft and reassuring. They kneaded down over his pectoral muscles and massaged his whole chest. But how did his mother know his chest hurt. You don't hurt your chest playing tennis. But this chest did hurt, and the firm, supple hands brought it warmth and life. His mother understood—
His eyes flipped open, and he stared into the inverted face of a nurse, stubby blonde curls bobbing crazily as her body swayed over him. "He's up," she said aloud.
Dr. Martha Rice moved into view. "I'll take over. Save yourself for tonight, Muriel. It's getting rougher."
The physician's hands replaced the nurse's, but the gentle, rhythmic touch was the same. Duncan relaxed in an orgy of tactile ecstasy.