"Bloody hell," Lamont winced. "Maybe Clyde's got a point. Those people could be in real danger the longer they stay in that place, and we've been encouraging them to do just that."
"I'm sure he'll rally himself when the time comes," Rosemary said halfheartedly, nodding toward Rico's unconscious form, which was slumped against the wall as if held in place by invisible straps.
"Blimey," Lamont muttered. "I hope the others are managing."
"I'm beginning to think there's something very wrong about that garden," the medic confessed. "What happened to me could have been written off as a fluke, some kind of isolated reaction. But now we've seen it happen to the colonist exploration party as well. In the garden, they were right as rain, but the minute they leave—it's like a plug's been pulled."
Lamont furrowed his brow thoughtfully. "Then why don't we feel the same way now?" He wondered. "Why have I never felt the same way?"
"You haven't felt anything unusual at all after leaving the garden?" Rosemary inquired.
"Well, I've been feeling fatigued all week," Lamont admitted. "And the feeling seems to lift a bit up in the garden and hit me again when I leave. But nothing about that has struck me as surprising given the circumstances."
"We were only there for few minutes today," Rosemary noted. "And when you've visited, it's never been for more than two or three hours at a time. But I was there for 48 hours before, and Rico's been there for days."
Lamont looked at her. "You think duration is a factor, then? The longer you stay in the garden, the weaker you feel when you leave?"
"It's a working theory," Rosemary shrugged.
"Bloody hell," Lamont winced. "Maybe Clyde's got a point. Those people could be in real danger the longer they stay in that place, and we've been encouraging them to do just that."
"For all we know, it's the least dangerous place in this tower," The medic consoled him. "We're totally in the dark, Monty. I mean, God—if I had known for a second that exploring those caves would…"
She trailed off, her round eyes clouding with tears. Lamont studied her cherubic features, his heart aching with a familiar contradiction of anger and sympathy. It was Rosemary's impulsiveness, combined with Rex's eagerness, that had led to the young pilot's death in the caves of Epiphany Rex. The short weeks that had passed since they left his body behind on that world had done little to ease the sting of his tragic and senseless passing.
Discomforted by the grief visible in Rosemary's expression, Lamont found himself automatically mumbling a half-hearted platitude. "Like you said. You couldn't have known."
A large tear rolled down the medic's round cheek. "I still see him," she blurted.
"Well, things like that don't go away overnight," Lamont offered uncomfortably.
Rosemary's round, green eyes turned to look at Lamont directly, seriously. "No," she insisted, evidently fighting to keep her voice from trembling. "I see him."
Lamont was searching for words to ask her for clarification when suddenly he felt as if his stomach were dropping into his legs. He turned his eyes back to the ghostly map that floated at the center of the lift.
"We've stopped," he observed.