Free Tin Woodman by David Bischoff, Dennis R. Bailey Page A

shook his head. “I mean, I’ll wait for the next lift.” Norlan nodded absently, punched a control. The lift rose.
    Ston felt perspiration bead on his brow, dampen his palms.
    When the lift returned empty, he guided the couch into it, dialed out the special sleeper deck code on the controls. The lift eased down, not helping the queasiness he felt in his abdomen. To take his mind off his fear and sickness, he considered the sleeper deck.
    The environmental systems of the Pegasus were capable of sustaining approximately a thousand persons, although the ship’s crew numbered half that many. But a starship cruiser of this sort performed many functions. Right now, aboard the Pegasus, close to a hundred civilian scientists engaged in deep-space research. Then there were the crews of ten small stellar exploration spacecraft the Pegasus was ferrying to a number of distant star systems. Four hundred and twenty-one military individuals and technicians bound for existing colonies near the edge of Triunion space were on board, as well as colonists being transported to newly chartered settlements along the Pegasus’ intended route.
    To accomplish the hauling of these people, an entire section of the Pegasus was outfitted with two thousand Henderson capsules—black, sarcophagus-like cryogenic units, each able to hold one person in suspended animation for years. All of the Pegasus’ human supercargo, including the nine hundred and eighty-four prospective colonists bound for two new worlds, were presently sealed in the starship’s Hendersons.
    This was sleeper deck.
    The platform halted. Before Ston were the cold corridors of his destination. There were no duty stations on this deck. The ship’s computer monitored the conditions of the Hendersons, which were efficiently racked in long, monotonous, uniform rows. Ston guided Mora’s couch between the close rows of these black metal boxes, relaxing. This part was planned very carefully; it should run smoothly.
    He eased up to the first available empty capsule, opened it, lifted Mora in, hooking up the waste evacuation and breathing equipment. He did not activate the cryogenic circuits; should Mora recover from her single psychemicidian injection, her metabolism would have to remain normal. Therefore, to prevent the monitor computer from sounding an alarm because of the unit’s “malfunctioning” freezer device, he’d have to cut the sensor cable before he initiated power into—
    Damn. He’d forgotten the wire cutters.
    Praying that it would be enough, he yanked at the sensor cable with his good hand. The cable held a moment . . . then jerked free. Relieved, he set it down on the floor in a space he hoped no one would notice. Then he pulled down the lid of the Henderson, switched on the air supply and the emergency heating coils.
    He double-checked everything to ascertain that nothing would malfunction. Reasonably satisfied, he grabbed hold of the empty med-couch and wheeled it back to wait for the lift platform.
    So many offenses, each one grounds for court-martial . . .
    A repeat announcement from the speakers brought him out of his reverie into the reality of the present moment. There was no use counting up the offenses now. The number dwindled into insignificance. They’d number them for him when they caught him—which they probably would. He had ditched the couch in an equipment storage area where it was not likely to be found, but as soon as Mora’s disappearance was discovered and announced, it was only a matter of time before Lieutenant Norlan put two and two together and pointed his face out on the personnel roster. And had that nurse gotten a good look at his face? Probably.
    He had botched it.
    But there was no use stopping now. The momentum he had built up was too great. Perhaps the inertia would carry him through.
    In any case, he had no regrets for what he had done. And no second thoughts about what he was going to do.

    Like most of the starship’s rooms of