It was strange, sitting here with an uncertain future ahead of him, waiting for something to happen. Whatever it was, it was going to be slow and perhaps the medical team would come up with an antidote in time. At least Paul and Alec were safe, and from the sounds of it the Control Room staff were unaffected.
If it needed the quantity of matter currently in his office to kill one person, a few particles should be relatively harmless. He hoped. He wanted another drink. And not because he was thirsty.
It took him a while to shuffle back to the dispenser, his feet skidding on the treacherous surface, arms windmilling for a frantic moment as he fought to stay upright. That was all he needed now, to end up rolling in the stuff again, or swallowing more than a few particles. It might be full Level 5 decontamination, and Level 4 was going to be bad enough – when they finally got round to extricating him from this mess.
Back at his desk he finished the last of the whisky, a mere splash in the bottom of the glass. He needed some mixers in here as well. Dry ginger, or sparkling water. He should leave a list for Alec: mixers, closet, maybe even a bed, and – he shifted position - a bathroom. Why had no-one thought about adding a private cloakroom? Nothing fancy. A shower, a sink and a ... toilet. He focused his mind on more important matters and crossed his legs.
Time passed. He ignored the report on his desk, instead idling away the minutes by doodling, his mind wandering as much as his pen. A rough sketch for a possible base on the far side of the moon. A radical new design for Skydiver. And finally he picked up his ruler and started a detailed scale diagram of his office, compete with bathroom and closet and bed. It took a long time, but there was no rush. Jackson interrupted him at regular intervals, requesting more medical information, each disturbance an unwelcome distraction from his task, but he persevered, finishing the last line of the blueprint with a sense of satisfaction. A job well done, and he sat back, brushing more flakes from his trousers. A hopeless task. As soon as he moved the fragments fell from his shoulders or hair. Even the walls were draped in the white stuff, clinging to the rough concrete, just waiting for a draught to unsettle them.
The intercom buzzed. Ford this time. He sighed. Was this a conspiracy, to make sure everyone got a chance to talk to him before... 'Lieutenant?'
'Commander, Decontamination estimate another hour still before they are finished here.'
'Thank you Lt. Any idea how the cleanup is progressing?'
'Underway sir. Colonel Lake suggests that you take it easy for now. Could be a couple more hours before they have your office isolated.'
No point in worrying about the decon team; creating a second, temporary room outside the doors to enclose the team with all their equipment would be a long process. But once that was airtight they would be able to get him out for decontamination. A shower, even if it was a cold shower, and clean clothes as well. He scratched the back of his neck. Clean, fresh un-itchy clothes - a wonderful thought. He would be without fluff, without sneezing, without white flakes on his eyelashes and in his mouth and down his neck and up his trousers. Without looking like some refugee from a blizzard. Or a victim of terminal dandruff. What on earth possessed him to wear his black suit today? As for taking it easy – what did Lake expect him to do in here? Sleep? Watch television? Weave a tapestry out of the bloody stuff?
He shifted position. Definitely a cloakroom. There was the empty whisky bottle if he got desperate. They couldn't be that much longer. And if things got really bad? If they couldn't get to him? No. It wouldn't come to that. Would it? This was just… fluff. Nothing more serious. They would have him out of here in a couple of hours. He shrugged out of his jacket and gave it a brief shake, wanting to strip off his jumper and scratch the itch between his shoulder blades. It was impossible to reach just the right spot however much he wriggled. In the end he fumbled for a ruler and used that to scratch the dammed itch. Just... there. Blissful.
It was quiet in the office now, the fluff muting the usual faint sounds from the complex and the air-conditioning off-line until the conduits had been checked and unsealed. It promised to be a long evening. His stomach growled. Shame this stuff wasn't edible. A closet, a bathroom, a bed and... a food dispenser. What day was it? If the First day of Christmas was the 26th, then today had to be... 'On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave to me, a four piece bathroom, three protective suits, two feather – no forget the feathers – two firm pillows and a fully stocked food dispenser.' It didn't scan or bear much resemblance to the original, but so what. It was something to pass the time. He drummed his fingers on the desk. How much longer? The worst part was the strain of waiting for the first symptoms to appear. Unless, of course it was a progressive accumulation virus and the effects would appear in one swift explosion of fatal symptoms. He winced. Unpleasant.
At least it would be quick. He looked at his watch. After nine already? And he'd intended having a hot bath and an early night. The thought of water made his bladder protest again and he twisted in his seat, frowning.
In the end he did what Lake suggested, taking a few minutes to get himself more comfortable, and then moving to the conference table with slow slides, his feet firmly on the ground, jacket slung over his shoulders. A slow sweep of his hands over the table cleared the worst of it, the flakes falling like a waterfall over the edge. Fluff-free for the first time in what seemed like hours. He rolled his jacket into a makeshift pillow, climbed up on the table, put his hands behind his head, and despite the itching, closed his eyes.