I stayed there on my knees until two of the crewmen yanked me up roughly by the armpits of my suit. I could hardly breathe. Every muscle and tendon in my body was in agony. And Rodriguez was dead. Marguerite said softly, “My mother …” She sounded exhausted, as drained physically and emotionally as I felt. I looked up. Hesperos was gone. No sign of the ship. Nothing above us but swirling sickly yellow-gray clouds. Nothing below us but more of the same. Duchamp, Rodriguez, Waller, and the three technicians—all dead. Venus had killed them. But then I realized that was not true. It was my fault. I had brought them to this hellish world. I had made them intrude into this place where humans were never meant to be. I had killed them. And myself as well, I thought. Without my medication I’d be dead soon enough. Tethered together like mountain climbers, we slowly, painfully, climbed down the ladder rungs set into the curving hull of Lucifer’s gas envelope to an airlock hatch set into its side.
