“You didn’t run any test.”
Driscoll looked at his slate again: “Impaired motor function, memory lapses…”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Mild concussion, prolonged isolation, oxygen deprivation, exposure to toxic materials—a possibility of some permanent dysfunction—”
“Bullshit!”
“Inappropriate behavior. Hostility.”
“Get the hell out of my room. Where’s Pranh?”
“Dr. Pranh is on leave. I’m taking his cases.” Driscoll made a note on the slate. “I take it you’d like to get out of here.”
“Damn right.”
“I’ll order the forms.”
“I’m not signing any forms.”
Driscoll got up, reached the door and hesitated. “Try to control those outbursts, Mr. Dekker. Staff understands your problem. But it would be all around easier if you’d make an effort. For your own sake.—Are the hallucinations continuing?”
Dekker stared at him. “Of course not,” he said. He thought, That’s a damn lie.
But it scared him. It pushed his pulse rate up. They’d turned off the beep, but that didn’t mean they weren’t listening, or that it wasn’t going into storage somewhere.
Eventually a younger man came in, with another slate—walked up to the bed and said, “How are you feeling?”
The badge on this one said Hewett. He hardly looked twenty. He had a pasty, nervous look. Maybe they’d told him he was crazy.
Dekker didn’t answer him; he stared, and the young man said, “I’ve got your release forms.” He offered the slate. “You sign at the bottom—”
“I’m not signing this thing.”
“You have to sign it.”
“I’ve asked for a lawyer. I’m not signing that thing.”
Hewett looked upset. “You have to sign it, Mr. Dekker.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You want out of here, don’t you?”
“They want me out of here.” He was cold. The air-conditioning seemed excessive. He thought if there was a pulse monitor going it must be going off the scale. “I’m not going to sign that thing. Tell them they can do it. They’ve lied about everything else.”
Hewett hesitated this way and the other, said, in hushed tones, “Just sign it. That’s all you have to do.”
“No.” He shut his eyes. Opened them again as Hewett left.
He wanted out of here. He no longer thought he was safe from anything here. But he didn’t see a way.
Rush for the door? If he got to the outside, especially if he hit anybody, the cops would have him on charges, God knew what. Sign the form and then go for a lawyer? A signed form was all that mattered to these people. It was all they listened to. And what kind of legal help was he going to get here? A company lawyer? Company witnesses?
He’d had a brush with the law on Sol Station—kid stuff. He’d learned about lawyers. He’d learned about hearings. Judges went in with their minds made up.
Another white coat came in. With a slate. This one walked up, held it out, and said, “This is for your medical insurance. Sign it.”
He eyed the slate, eyed the woman suspiciously.
“It just authorizes payment of your bills. You’re damned lucky you have it. You’re a hundred percent covered.”
He took it, looked at it. It looked legitimate. It listed him and it listed Cory. He signed the thing, and he remembered fighting with Cory, an outright screaming argument about that policy, saying, We don’t need insurance, Cory, God, if you have an accident out here, that’s it, that’s all—it’s a damn waste of money…
And Cory had said, the college girl, from just a different way of life than his: I’ve never been without insurance. We’re at least having medical. I don’t care what it costs. If we need it, it’ll always be there…
In the crazy way Cory did things—argue about a damn jacket and spend a thousand dollars a year on a company policy that wasn’t going to do them a damn bit of good. He started crying. He didn’t even know why. The medic stood there staring at him a moment, and he put his arm over his face and turned as far over as he could. She left. But he couldn’t stop.
Tommy came in and said, “Do you want a shot, Mr. Dekker?”
He grabbed his pillow and buried his face in it. So Tommy went away.
“Got something for you,” Marcie Hager said, in her office in Records, with that peculiar smugness that Ben remembered. He came away from the doorframe—he had come to the Records office on a cryptic Drop by—from Marcie. This after a nicebottle of wine that showed up with a buzz at Marcie’s door some days past. You never paid Marcie’s kind in funds. But you did want to be remembered.
Marcie said, a very faint whisper, “Got a little flag on your claims case. Seems Dekker’s license has just been pulled.”
He pursed his lips. “Grounds?”
“Doesn’t say. Just turned up on the flag.”
“Mmmn,” he said. He winked at Marcie, said: “Thanks,” with a little lift of his brows. “Big thanks.”
Marcie looked self-satisfied. “I did enjoy that.” Meaning the wine, he was sure. But it didn’t mean the wine paid everything. Marcie had her sights set on promotion—something to do with personnel. He didn’t forget that.
So Dekker’s license was being pulled.
He walked out of the Records, hands in pockets, reckoning what he knew and who he knew, and finally decided to stroll over to a certain small office in Admin—nothing much. Records.
But Fergie Tucker worked there.
Fergie was just plain bribable.
“Hello, Fergie,” he said, leaning on the counter. “How about lunch?”
“The guy’s got no license now,” Ben said, over a sandwich in Io’s flashing neon decor. You never could tell what you were eating in here—everything flashed red and orange and green and the music made the wine shake in the glasses, but Tucker liked it. “He’s out on a medical. Psych, if you ask me. He was crazy, out of his head all the way back—no way in hell he was in control of that ship.”
Tucker took a drink. Strobe light turned the wine black, then flashed red on Tucker’s face as he set the glass down, a jerky movement synched with the bass flutter down the scale. The wine shook. The air quivered. Tucker said, more loudly than he liked, “What exactly do you want?”
“Ex-pe-dition,” he said, leaning close.
“Huh?” Tucker said. Tucker’s hearing had to be going.
“Expedite!” he said, over the bass line. “There’s no damn way he was in control. That’s the law. He has to be in control, or we own that ship.”
“I know the law.”
“Well?”
Tucker shrugged, and took a big bite of his sandwich. Which left him sitting there while he disposed of it. Tucker had been a pig in school and he was still a pig. But he was a high-ranking pig. And he could move data along if he wanted to.
“Everything in order?” Tucker asked finally, when the mouthful was down.
“That application’s so clean it squeaks. Vid. Before, after, and during. Clean bill from the cops.”
“Court of Inquiry?” This around a mouthful.
“We haven’t gotten any complaints. Nothing filed on us. On him, maybe. But I know that title’s clear. It’s his. The partner’s dead, died out there. Sole title’s with the guy, there aren’t any other liens on it. We’re it.”
Tucker’s face was orange now, with moving shadows. Sitar run. Clash of cymbals. Bass in syncopation.
“So what are we talking about?”
“Just slip it ahead in the queue.”
Tucker swallowed. Said, slowly, “Has to have a grounds. Give me one.”
He said, carefully, “What’s grounds?” and inclined his head as far across the table as he could get it. The music was on a loud stretch.
“Where is this ship? What’s its status?”
“At dock. Lifesupport’s a mess. Tanks are blown. Filthy as hell and the cops have it.”
“Chance of ongoing damage?”
“Could be. Depends. Have we got a better one?”
“Hardship.”
“On who?”
“The claimant? Have you suffered damage?”
God, it was so close he could taste it. “Financial?”