Clifton stood at the bottom of the shaft, his face white, his eyes wide, his stance against the bulkhead that of a man who needed only a slight push to slump to the floor. "Karen," he murmured. "Karen." He had been standing there a long time. He was staring at his dead wife, a heap of broken bones and blood on the floor. But he was not seeing her—at least not as she was now. He was seeing her the way his mind kept bringing her back to him: the white evenness of her teeth when she smiled, the fur