Rodney ran into Elizabeth – almost literally – at the last junction before the dock where the Daedalus was berthed. As they charged down the final corridor, Rodney related his experience on the balcony. "But something wasn't right about him," he panted. "He looked at me, but not AT me, more like through me. I'm not sure he knew I was there, or even where he was."
Elizabeth nodded to the airmen guarding the ship's entrance as they rushed past. "Let's hope he gets the chance to explain it to us."
Sickbay was a scene of organized chaos. Caldwell stood just inside the door, out of the way of the medical personnel that darted about, their soft-soled shoes squeaking on the wet floor. Rodney noted absently that the colonel was impeccably dressed in pressed BDUs despite the late hour.
"Colonel," Elizabeth nodded, her eyes seeking Carson's familiar form through the swarm of medics surrounding him.
"Dr. Weir. Can you tell me what happened?"
Elizabeth began to repeat the story, but Rodney tuned them out and inched closer to the bed. His foot nudged something and he looked down. Carson's T-shirt, sodden and sliced to ribbons, lay discarded in a puddle on the floor. He stared at it for a moment before picking it up and spreading the gray scrap of fabric between his hands. Faded black letters read "University of Glasgow." His physicist's mind observed the tears in the shirt, ignoring the clean cuts made by the nurses' scissors and studying the more ragged, uneven slices he knew had been caused by wind shear. Rodney estimated the distance between the balcony and the water's surface, figured in the acceleration of gravity at nine meters per second per second and determined that Carson would have been moving at nearly sixteen kilometers per hour when he hit the water. The effects of sudden deceleration on the human body…God, Carson…
The voices Rodney had been resolutely not listening to changed in tone, and he tuned in. "We've got him back," one of the voices said. "I want a full set of CT scans, now. Ringers wide open and continue the O2, and let's get his body temperature up. Move, people." Rodney was pushed aside none too gently and flattened himself against the wall, still clutching the soaked shirt. He kept his eyes on it when the gurney rolled rapidly past him.
A hand touched his arm and he shivered. "Rodney," Elizabeth said, "It looks like it could be a while. We're going to wait in Colonel Caldwell's office for news." Rodney let himself be led out of the waterlogged sickbay, the hated laws of physics still spitting out worst-case scenarios in his mind.
He snapped out of it abruptly when a hot mug was pressed into his hand. Looking around, he found himself sitting at a conference table, Elizabeth's concerned gaze boring into him. He sighed and wiped his hand over his face, giving himself a mental shake. "I'm okay," he muttered. "Elizabeth, we have to figure out what happened."
"I've radioed Colonel Sheppard. He's taking a team to Carson's quarters to look for anything out of the ordinary."
Caldwell leaned forward and folded his hands on the tabletop. "Just what is it you're hoping to find?"
Rodney jumped up and began pacing. "Something to explain Carson's behavior. Obviously, some outside influence was at work, here." He snapped his fingers, turning and pointing to Weir. "Make sure you tell Sheppard to check for delivery systems for mind-altering substances. He should also do a sweep for electronic devices – we may be talking about subliminal messages."
"Doctor McKay," Caldwell said, "Are you familiar with Occam's Razor?"
"You know, I must still be asleep and having some bizarre dream, because I couldn't possibly be hearing some knuckle-dragging military Neanderthal presuming to lecture me on scientific principles! Tell me, Colonel, how did you come by your vast knowledge of methodological reductionism?"
"What I'm trying to say is –"
"Don't say anything!" Rodney snapped. "All you're doing is confirming your ignorance, not only of science but of the Pegasus Galaxy. Do you honestly think that a principle advocating the simplest explanation as the most likely can possibly apply in a galaxy populated by alien glam-rock posers that suck out your life with their hands? The sheer idiocy astounds me! God, the U.S. military actually promoted you?"
"Rodney, that's enough." Weir's face was tight.
He whirled on her, feeling his muscles tremble through sheer rage. "No, Elizabeth, it is NOT enough. There's no way Carson would jump off a damned balcony unless he was being influenced in some way. The man is my friend. I know him as well as anyone in Atlantis. He was definitely not suicidal, and I won't allow anyone, including him," he shouted, jerking a thumb at Caldwell, "to spread rumors to the contrary."
Caldwell's expression was quietly thunderous. "We don't know what happened," he grated out. "The only evidence we have so far is what you reported seeing with your own two eyes. Doctor Beckett wasn't pushed or thrown off that balcony. He stepped off under his own power. And until we get further information, we have no choice but to proceed under the obvious assumption."
Rodney's jaw hurt from being clenched so tightly. "Your compassion amazes me," he spat.
Caldwell cocked his head. "I must be dreaming," he drawled. "I couldn't possibly be receiving a lecture on compassion from Rodney McKay."
McKay's face turned purple, and he opened his mouth to fire the next salvo. Elizabeth Weir rose to her feet, thumping her palms on the table. "That's enough! None of this is helping Carson, or getting us any closer to an answer. Now, my most immediate concern is for Carson's well being, and by that I mean both physical and emotional. If it isn't yours, it damn well should be."
Rodney took a deep breath and sank into his chair. Caldwell leaned back, his eyes narrowed.
They waited in silence for the doctor.